Wallaker's Discovery
by S. Faith
Summary: He only wanted to start life afresh, away from war. He would get his wish… but not quite in the form that he expected. Overlaps (and extends) the events of Mad About The Boy to fill in Scott Wallaker's history. If you liked that book, you'll probably like this story.
1. Chapter 1

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary<span>: He only wanted to start life afresh, away from war. He would get his wish… but not quite in the form that he expected.  
><span>Disclaimer<span>: So not mine.  
><span>Notes<span>: Overlaps (and extends) the events of _Mad About The Boy_ to fill in Scott Wallaker's history. If you liked that book, you'll probably like this story.  
>Typos or other errors are entirely my fault. Thanks to Marcie, AS ALWAYS.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

April, 2013

He was expecting to find an obituary, perhaps a simple paragraph or two mentioning the achievements of his life and the family he'd left behind. What he found instead was page after page of hits on a web search, a variety of outpourings of testimonials and regretful condolences from a spectrum of sources… and a heart-breaking photo of a familiar woman shown sitting, shrouded in black, a babe in her arms, a small child at her side; she clung to them, and the elder child, to her.

He sat back in his chair, brought his fingers to his chin thoughtfully, looking at this photo. Nothing like what he was expecting. Not at all.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1 <strong>

_October, 2012_

Good to be on English ground again.

He reached down, picked up his duffel and slung it over his shoulder, then took in a deep breath before exhaling long and slowly. Good indeed to be home. He couldn't help chuckling, though, picturing himself the very cliché of a homecoming… but it did feel good to breathe in moist air after so much aridity, to be surrounded by green instead of shades of brown.

"Best get inside," said a voice from behind him, shouting over the din of the engines. "Get you processed and home to your family, sir."

He smiled, though pinched and reluctant it was; the family to which he was returning was not precisely intact. He very much looked forward to seeing his sons, but he was not exactly enthusiastic at seeing his ex-wife again, the woman who had committed adultery, filed for divorce, tried to soak him for his money, all while he'd been abroad. But he'd promised to try to work things out for the sake of the boys. She'd sworn that she'd changed, declared she was repentant, and thought a reconciliation would be the best for all involved. He had yet to be fully convinced, but was willing to give it a shot, mostly because he thought the familiarity would help after the trauma of his tours.

He turned to face the man who'd spoken, a young serviceman not much older than twenty-five, if he had to guess. It was hard for him to not think of the soldier as a boy.

"Just over there, sir," shouted the boy, anticipating his question, pointing towards a nondescript building.

"Right. Thanks." He walked across the tarmac towards it.

…

Anticlimactic.

As he rode the stretch of road to London, he could only think that his long military career was over with more of a whimper than a bang. The requisite debriefing, the completion of paperwork, the handshake and then a clap on the shoulder with sincere gratitude for his years of service. Now he was discharged, done, free. It all seemed over so quickly once he'd landed.

On the other hand, he was not much interested in fanfare. He hoped to live in peace and quiet, and was content to have nothing much planned at all. He hadn't even rung up Sarah to tell her of the exact time of his arrival. He wanted to head directly to his new flat, spend the night in a civilian bed with the silence broken only by the sound of the occasional auto driving by, perhaps a police siren now and again. No worries that the night might be interrupted by artillery fire.

He rang up the estate agency to arrange to have someone meet him at the flat he'd chosen from afar via the miracle of the internet. The agent herself, Leigh, met him at the kerb to present the key. After brief introductions, she offered to bring him inside, show him around as a courtesy since she hadn't done so before, but he declined the kindly meant offer. He wanted to have a quiet supper all by himself. He hadn't been truly alone in some time, and he wanted to enjoy it, at least for a night or two.

The door creaked open and he stepped inside, surveying his new abode, his home until such time as he returned to living in the house they all used to share together, if the reconciliation in fact worked. They had, after all, a rough history together with much yet to work through.

Sparsely decorated, the flat was much larger than he was expecting, which ultimately was a good thing if he were to host his sons. He set down his bag, went over to the windows and pulled the curtain aside. He was met by a reassuring view of the rolling green of Hampstead Heath; he felt almost like he was in the country, which suited him just fine. He allowed himself a little smile.

Since he had no food in house, and had no desire to brave the wilds of the likes of Tesco after a long day of travel, he thought he might take a walk around his new neighbourhood, familiarise himself with what was there, what takeaway was available.

The stroll turned out to be much shorter than he intended, for within a block he encountered a scent that made him realise quite how hungry he was. Ordering a deluxe curry felt immensely luxurious. He brought it (and the beer he'd picked up while the order was put together) quickly back to his flat as if he were a thief in the night.

He thought it might have been one of the better meals he'd had in his life.

…

"You should have called, Scott. We could have met you."

He chuckled. "I flew into a military base, Sarah. You hardly could have met me at baggage claim."

"Still. You should have called."

"The exact timing of my arrival was so uncertain, I didn't want to disrupt everyone's schedule," he said, telling a bit of a white lie. "I'm calling now though. So how are you? How are the boys?"

"I'm fine," she said coolly, "and they're at school. You should know that."

"Right, right. Keen to see them is all," he said. "Maybe they can come for the weekend."

"It's nearly the autumn break, Scott," she said. "They're up to their eyeballs in schoolwork. Surely you can wait another week and a half. They can stay with you. Can you have them over for a week? Is there enough room for them? Where is your place, anyway? Maybe I can come make you dinner."

"Yes, I've got the spare room set up for the boys," he said; another white lie, but he'd only been back two days, and would certainly have it ready by the end of the month. "Thank you for the offer, but not tonight."

The truth was, despite agreeing to try a reconciliation, he was not eager for her to know where the flat was, as she would be likely to turn up uninvited on a regular basis. Additionally, her cooking had been quite frankly abysmal and not enough time had passed for that to have improved.

"Do you have plans?" she asked.

"I'm just back from Afghanistan, Sarah. I just want some time on my own." It was the most honest he'd been with her since he'd called.

"Oh," she said, sounding stunned. "You're okay, I hope?"

"I'm fine," he said, then amended, thinking of his recurring nightmares, "I'll be fine."

"Please call if you need anything," she said. "I mean it."

He didn't doubt her sincerity, but he was unlikely to turn to her first, not before rebuilding their trust in each other. "Thank you… we'll talk soon. Bye."

"Bye," she said, then put down the phone.

He found it curious that she didn't try to keep him on the phone as was her habit, but not curious enough to analyse the possible reasons why. He'd gotten the obligatory call out of the way, and was now too eager to make the next call to his brother.

Before he knew it, three hours had gone by in conversation, and he felt immensely better for it. Speaking with his brother always made him feel like this, because Sean always knew just what to ask and just what to say; the conversation was always intelligent and engaging, and he always rang off feeling a true pleasure deep in his heart.

…

Despite his best intentions, and despite having no other obligations to occupy his day, Scott soon realised he hated housework and wasn't all that patient or experienced a cook, not to mention that he now had two boys coming to live with him in a few short days' time. He picked up the telephone and punched in Leigh's number for a starting point to ask about housekeeping services.

"Absolutely," said Leigh. "I've got a number for you, give me a moment."

After a few seconds she located it and gave it to him, which he in turn called; he spoke briefly with the manager and secured the services for housekeeping and dinner preparation by one of their most senior employees. They advised she could start as early as that same afternoon, but he deferred until the next day, as he, ironically enough, wanted a chance to tidy up the place.

The day to follow brought Ms Martha Torres to the flat: a petite but portly lady of Filipino descent, bursting with energy and wearing a broad smile on her face. "Hello, Mr Wallaker," she said, holding her tiny hand out in greeting.

"Hello," he replied, accepting the handshake. "So, this is the flat…" He gestured with one hand. "Twice a week to clean… then dinners during the week."

"Yes, is good," she said, nodding.

"It's not overkill, you don't think?"

She smiled. "You are alone here?"

"I have two sons who stay with me. Well, will be staying with me. I'm just recently back from serving abroad."

"Ahh, I see," she said.

"They're in boarding school, but will be here for autumn break and then probably pretty regularly thereafter, depending on how things work out with—" he said, then chuckled. "Sorry, I'm going on a bit, aren't I?"

"Is okay," she said. "Good to know for the future. And no, not overkill."

"Good, great," he said. "Well. I suppose I ought to let you at it. I'll, er…" He looked down to her bucket of cleaning supplies, realised it would be a good time to run some errands to prepare for the boys' stay. "…be back soon."

* * *

><p><em>November, 2012<em>

Scott didn't know what surprised him more in seeing his family again: how much Matt and Fred had grown, or how different Sarah looked—in truth, how much work she'd had, her face now as unnaturally tight as a drum—since he'd seen them all last.

They had a nice dinner together out after Sarah had picked them up from the school; she had chosen the restaurant, and in his estimation it was appropriately posh for her taste and a bit tacky for his own. The boys spent the evening acting like the slightest wrong move might result in a cattle prod to the backside. Scott assumed it was a combination of the restaurant's atmosphere and them feeling a bit odd around a father they hadn't seen in a while, and thought it likely they would relax a bit after they got reacquainted with him, in a more familiar setting.

It turned out they needed even less time than he thought. Sarah accompanied them back to the flat to have a look around, to see it for the first time. She seemed to approve of it, even privately intimated she'd like staying over on occasion once they made it back to that point; he was noncommittal, grateful he had been insistent in not telling the boys about the discussed reconciliation, so as not to unnecessarily raise their hopes in case it didn't end up working out. Given that he'd been in the flat for a fortnight and she had only just seen it, given his startled (but well-masked) reaction at seeing what she'd done to herself, he thought it might do well to have erred on the side of secrecy.

Soon enough the boys were settled into the spare bedroom, then saying goodnight and goodbye to their mother, and once she'd gone, they—he would swear—both let out long breaths as if actually deflating.

"So, Dad," said Matt, reclining on the sofa, "are you back for good now?"

"Will we get to see you a lot now?"

"I am back for good now. I'm retired from the military," said Scott, wondering exactly how much—or how little—Sarah had actually told them. "I'd hardly buy a new flat if this were just a temporary leave, would I?"

"Suppose not," said Matt. "Have you got Xbox?"

Scott drew his brows together. "Have I got what?"

"You know, Xbox. Video games."

"I most certainly do not."

"Can we go get ours?" piped up Fred.

"No," said Scott.

"Aw, but—" they began to protest.

"I am not providing room and board for a pair of video game zombies," he interrupted, then decided to soften his tone a bit. "You're here because I want to spend time with you. Plus, you've got reading and homework to do on break, and..." He trailed off, seeing the boys looking more and more like they'd just been handed down a life sentence of hard labour. "Don't worry. I don't have your days plotted out, minute by minute."

They both looked at him with evident scepticism. "Not minute by minute," said Matt. "Just morning, afternoon and night, right?"

Scott couldn't help chuckling. "Well, it so happens that I do have your days roughly outlined," he said, then added jokingly, "but I'll take your input if you must have it."

The weather forecast promised gorgeous, unseasonably warm temperatures, so Scott took out his diary and the three of them decided what they wanted to do on each weekday they were home. Plans for football in the park, museum visits and other activities in the afternoons; Cluedo, films and school-related activities in the evenings. "Maybe even a concert on the weekend, before you go back," said Scott; the boys loved music of all kinds because he'd made sure they'd been exposed to it. "A bit of classical, or jazz, if I can find one."

At this, the boys both grinned.

The week went so quickly that it surprised him. He was pleased to see that they stayed relaxed and mellow despite his firm, authoritative parenting; they commented that he was way more fun than their mother. They were curious about his time in the military, especially about Afghanistan, although he preferred not to talk about it. He particularly did not want to talk about the event that led to his leaving the military life, so when they asked why he came home, he simply told them he was tired of being abroad and away from them, and wanted to come home.

"Can we stay with you for Christmas?" wondered Matt, en route back to school on Sunday morning.

"Oh, yes, can we?" chimed in Fred.

"'_May_ we'," said Scott, "and I'll have to discuss it with your mother."

He was happy that he'd be able to see them more now, and he definitely got the distinct impression that the feeling was mutual. He was looking forward to getting to know them better still.

…

_Now what?_

Once the excitement of the boys' visit was over, once he had made all of the requisite contacts to renew acquaintances, he found himself struggling to find things to do to fill his days. He'd been telling people he had been taking some time off before deciding what to do next, except that the 'time off' was starting to make him feel like the walls were closing in. Even Martha admonished him for not giving her enough to do, which, considering how much he disliked housework, was saying something.

When Sarah invited him to yet another one of her interminable charity luncheons in mid-November, he accepted readily and eagerly, which reiterated to him his utter state of boredom. Not that he disapproved of her involvement with charities if it helped them to raise money, but he had always assumed she had done it for the prestige, as the events themselves usually turned out to be full of people flush with cash but devoid of personality. Now he realised she may well have been as bored as he was.

His acceptance turned out to be quite serendipitous: one of his old uni mates was also in attendance at this luncheon, one whom he had not even realised was still in the area. From the expression on his face, his old friend Martin Miller seemed equally surprised to see him, too.

"Fancy seeing you here, Wallaker," said Martin. "I thought you were somewhere in the Middle East."

"Afghanistan," corrected Scott, gesturing they should continue on towards the bar. "And no, not anymore. I'm retired from service. And you, I figured you'd be some kind of diplomatic attaché or something."

"I came awfully close," he said, then ordered a gin and tonic. "Instead I took on an even bigger challenge: a school full of children."

This unexpected sentence caused Scott to abruptly chuckle. "You and children," he said, thinking of Martin's vehement statements at uni that he would never have any of his own. "That is a surprise."

"Yeah, well, I can honestly say that I'm never bored," Martin said.

"What is it that you're doing, exactly?"

"Headmaster," said Martin almost as if he were embarrassed to admit it, then named a very expensive prestigious public school, causing Scott's brows to rise. "Been a while, a decade at least. Surprisingly rewarding, despite the occasional stress."

"You enjoy it, then?" asked Scott.

"I don't always _enjoy_ it, per se," he said with a grin, "but I can't see myself wanting to do anything else. Seeing those boys rise through the ranks… never did have any children of my own, but I haven't felt I've lost a thing."

A wave of something that felt very much like envy burbled up in Scott. To feel such absolute satisfaction with one's life work, to know of the good one was ultimately doing… it seemed to Scott an unattainable goal. "Sounds fantastic," he said. "What a great opportunity to have such a positive effect on a child."

"Ever thought of anything like that yourself?"

Scott had not, and said so. "I wouldn't necessarily rule it out," he said, "though I'm not sure what I could do at a school that doesn't involve janitorial duties." Martin chuckled. "I mean, I don't exactly have a teaching certification."

"Hmmm," said Martin thoughtfully, quiet for many moments before abruptly asking, "So, what _have_ you been up to? Have you been back among we civilians for long?"

"Just back last month. Aside from having my boys for the autumn break week, I've not been doing a whole lot except charity luncheons." They both grinned, but then Scott exhaled roughly. "Truth be told, Miller, I'm bored senseless."

"Did you have something in mind?" Martin asked.

Actually, he realised he did not, and he thought that was part of the problem. He had been quite used to a very active life, always on alert, and now… while he was not eager to put his life on the line again, nor was he looking for the sort of action he'd seen in war zones, he was very aware of the fact that he missed that activity. _Any_ activity.

"I'll take that as a 'no'," said Martin. "Hmmm. I may have something that would interest you. Let me make a few enquiries first."

…

Scott expected any number of responses from Sarah about the proposal offered by Martin except for the one she actually gave him: a long, breathless laugh.

"Oh, you never fail to amuse me," she said. "A job at a school as a sports teacher. I so needed the laugh today."

"It's not a joke," he said darkly.

Her brows rose in surprise as far as they could, given the tautness of her skin. "You're serious?" she asked. "Oh, Scott, why must you stoop so low? You're financially independent and don't need to take a job herding children."

Taking a job at the school, with the boys, was a chance to make a difference, to surround himself with innocence to make up for the destruction and killing, but as he had never gone into detail about his war experiences with anyone but his brother (and only the barest minimum at that), he wasn't sure he could impress upon her what this meant to him beyond filling the hours of the day. He decided to keep it simple. "I need something worthwhile to do," he said at last, "at least until I figure out what I want for the rest of my life."

She pursed her lips, almost looked disgusted, but then mustered up a smile. "Well, it's your life and your choice," she said. "And if it's what you want to do, then by all means, do it."

She was probably being facetious, and he certainly did not need her permission, but he thanked her all the same.

The start date was fairly quickly after they offered him the job—the first Monday of December—which underscored how serendipitous his availability was for them. Martin had mentioned how down to the wire they'd been getting; they didn't want the boys to be without a sports teacher, or one that couldn't stay through the rest of the academic year.

* * *

><p><em>December, 2012<em>

He felt a bit like a schoolboy on the night before the day he started; unexpected and unwanted nervous jitters plagued him. _What if I can't actually do this job? What if the boys don't respect me? What if…_

"Stop that," he barked aloud to no one but himself. If Martin had faith he could do it, then he needed to have faith in himself.

Monday morning proved to him he'd had nothing to worry about. The boys were suitably impressed that he meant business when it came to discipline and participation. He noticed in particular one enthusiastic child who genuinely seemed to love playing football, as opposed to the boys who were aggressively competitive and just wanted to win.

His name was Billy Darcy.

Not that Scott had a long time to make a character sketch, but Billy was an intriguing boy, a study in opposites, to an extent: reserved, polite, yet full of energy when engaged in the game.

At the end of the school day, he accompanied the group of six-year-old boys to the area where the parents would come to pick them up. This task was one that the previous sports teacher had taken upon himself, according to his mentor and new friend at the school, Alan Pitlochry-Howard, since their sports class was at the end of the school day. He felt it was a good tradition to maintain, for a sense of continuity for the boys and the parents.

When said parents—mothers, if he was to be perfectly honest—started gathering to get their children, he introduced himself as the new sports teacher. Generally he seemed to be warmly received, though these mothers seemed to be of a particularly cutthroat breed of individuals; one in particular questioned his credentials. Oh, she was subtle about it—"Where have you taught before?"—but he saw through the subtlety. It didn't surprise him that she was the mother of Atticus, who was one of the more neurotic, high-strung boys, poor lad.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted something that didn't quite belong at a boys' school: a small blonde child, a girl. She was skipping around, smiling, singing to herself, almost dancing; She had her hair done up in a pair of ponytails, which bounced around as she did. She was quite honestly the most adorable, prettiest little girl he had ever seen. He loved his sons, but felt a bit sorry that he'd never had a daughter.

It was then she spotted Scott, stopped her frolicking, and looked up with wide eyes, practically craning her head back to take in his height.

"Hello," he said in the kindest voice he could manage, crouching down to reduce his height, offering her a smile. "What brings you to the junior branch?"

"My brudder," she said. "He goes here." She had a slight lisp that turned her 'goes' into something closer to 'go-eth'. She brought her fine little brows close together as she scrutinised him. "I never saw you before."

"I'm Mr Wallaker," he said. "What's your brother's name?"

"Billy," she said. "Are you de sport teacher?"

He blinked in his surprise—this blonde-haired, blue eyed child was the sister of the dark-haired, dark-eyed boy?—and had opened his mouth to continue when he heard what was undoubtedly this little girl's name in a tone that conveyed concern:

"Mabel?"

Mabel looked towards the source of that beckoning, as did Scott; he brought himself to his full height. The approaching blonde was undoubtedly the girl's mother; the similarities were uncanny, down to the drawn brows. As she came closer, though, he realised that his initial impression of her being in her mid-thirties (by her dress and the way she carried herself) was wrong, that she was probably something a bit closer to his own age; on closer inspection, her blue eyes, so close a match to the child's, showed tell-tale laugh lines of the sort that thirtysomethings haven't had time to develop yet.

"What are you up to?" she asked her daughter, then said to him with a bright smile, "Oh, you must be the new sports teacher. Mr… Walker, was it?"

"Mr Wolkda," offered Mabel with a grin; dimples like her mum, too.

He couldn't help smiling, either. He held out his hand. "Mr Wallaker, actually," he said, carefully enunciating his surname.

"Oh, sorry," she said, then accepted the handshake. "I'm Billy's mum. Mrs Darcy. Pleasure to meet you."

"A pleasure to meet you, too," he said.

"And Mabel's mum, too, obviously," she added, indicating the little girl. "She attends the Phoenix School and I fetch her first. Sorry I missed introductions earlier. I was running late."

Unkindly perhaps, thinking of Sarah's usual reason for being late, he considered that she should perhaps schedule the coiffure earlier in the day, but didn't say a thing; he knew all too well that those messy up-dos were carefully constructed fabrications. "It's all right. We're introduced now."

She did not reply, only looked away, distracted, presumably looking for her son. Scott turned and called out, loudly and authoritatively, "Billy! Get your things. Your mum's here for you!"

Billy's head snapped up from his involved game of keepy-uppy, which stopped instantly and he ran for his things. Scott turned back to Mrs Darcy, thinking she would be appreciative for the help, but instead she just gave him an odd look and a stiff smile. This confused Scott greatly.

As Billy came over with his knapsack, she took his hand, and Mabel's too. "Well," said Mrs Darcy, offering a very stiff smile, "we should be off. I'm sure we'll see you 'round."

"Goodbye," he said.

As they walked away, Mabel looked behind herself, smiled, and waved to him with her free hand, proving that the war in Afghanistan had not, in fact, destroyed his heart's ability to be utterly melted.

"Ah, I see you've met the Darcys."

He looked to his right to find Alan offering a slight smile. "Yes."

Alan nodded. "He's a good kid, Billy Darcy," he said. "We tend to watch out for him because of his father."

"Ah," said Scott, considering that his father was probably some high-stakes financier, politician, or otherwise wealthy man responsible for large charitable donations to the school in addition to paying tuition. Fighting his growing annoyance, he said, "Duly noted."

…

If Scott thought that Mrs Darcy's lateness that first day was an aberration, he was soon cured of the misapprehension. As the days passed, he noticed that Billy was never ready for his pickup on time. When he asked why, Billy could only say with rather pragmatic perspective, "It's okay. She's always late."

In its own way, it was refreshing that she was late when compared to the brigade of mothers, who by and large seemed as competitive as their offspring, too overly focused on being utterly perfect. It didn't take long for these mothers to start barraging him with requests and offering opinions on his teaching style, as well as offering unwanted assessments of their sons' athletic ability when they didn't agree with his own. Even the mum who had questioned his abilities was now trying to curry favour and simultaneously influence him.

He was not deaf to their conversations in the schoolyard; petty and unimportant concerns that paled in comparison to all that was wrong in the world. He hated overhearing them, because there was no recourse he could take to address how ridiculous and trivial they were without risking being fired as a result. Despite their mothers, he had come to care about the boys already. He decided to focus as much as possible on the boys and their education, and in doing what was right for them.

In a continued effort to rekindle the relationship—an effort that had not, to date, been very concerted on his part—he and Sarah had gone out together a few times for dinner. His heart wasn't really much in it, even still, because she tended to remind him a little too much now of the odious mums at school that he tried to avoid. But for the sake of his sons, he still gave it a try.

He saw Mrs Darcy on a daily basis, too, when she came with little Mabel to pick up Billy. Despite how different Billy was from the other boys, he could not help thinking of her any differently than the thought of the rest of the spoiled, rich mums. _Probably has never worked a day in her life_, he thought, _spends her days in the salon, doing nothing meaningful… and still can't even be bothered to pick up her kids on time. _

And yet… he realised that there was something about her that attracted his attention, something beside her prettiness, something that singled her out in his mind compared to the other mothers. Maybe it was the sweet and earnest Mabel, the serious and kind Billy, that tempered his opinion of a woman that ordinarily would be among a group of women least likely to grab his attention. He resented this attraction, though, as it was most unwilling on his part.

It didn't keep him from idly wondering, though, what her husband was like. Or whether she was divorced. He wondered more than he probably should have; he heard the other boys speak frequently about things they did on the weekend with their fathers, but he had never once heard Billy mention anything similar. Was the man just not around for his son?

As the winter holiday approached, he had the opportunity to ask Billy what his family planned for the holidays. Billy just shrugged a little. "I don't think my mum knows yet. She keeps talking about maybe taking us to Berlin, or Nottingham, or Grafton Underwood, or maybe on a cruise with my granny, or on a vodka boat."

It was quite a wide variety of possibilities, but the last item really got his attention. "A vodka boat?" he asked.

"I heard my mum call it that. But she told Aunt Talitha probably not because of the Russian money-launderers."

Scott's brows rose in astonishment; this conversation did not leave the most charitable of impressions. However, he was still curious, and asked, "Who's in Berlin? Nottingham?"

Shrugs to both of those from Billy. "I don't know. Friends of Mum's, I think. Maybe with Uncle Daniel or Uncle Tom or Aunt Jude."

He as starting to think that this passel of aunts and uncles were not actually blood relatives. "And Grafton Underwood?"

Billy offered a smile. "Grandpa and Granny Darcy. But it's really hard to get internet there."

_Aha_, thought Scott. _His father's family_. "What about your dad?"

"He used to be Santa," was all he said. He looked a little sad, so Scott didn't press for more information.

* * *

><p><em>Late December, 2012<em>

The boys did in fact stay at his flat over the holiday break, and for Christmas Day and Christmas dinner, Sarah came to visit. They had a relatively nice time of it. The only dark cloud was her gifts for the boys; expensive first editions of Beatrix Potter books, which as stories, the boys were too old to read, and as collectible objects, they were too young to appreciate.

They were gracious and smiled as they accepted them, but he could tell they were disappointed. He hoped his own gift would mollify that disappointment: the latest Xbox model for them for when they stayed with him, plus a handful of games that the shop owner advised were most popular for boys their age. He'd changed his mind since they'd first asked in November about having one there. They had been so well-behaved, so good about doing what they _had_ to do, that he thought it only fair he give them something that they _wanted_ to do as a reward.

At the sight of the setup in their shared room, he thought he had never seen the boys look more shocked or surprised, nor had Sarah ever looked quite so quietly seething.

"But you don't get to sit and play all the time," Scott said. "You still have chores, homework, and obligations to your father and mother. Do I make myself clear?"

Their wide grins and enthusiastic nods were enough of an affirmative. "Thanks, Dad!"

He left them to play a few games after dinner, returning to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine. "Oh," she said, perking up after the post-gift sulk, "I'll have a little more."

He noticed that she drank far more of the bottle than he did, insisted he open another bottle, which he did because he wanted a second glass. The more wine she had, the more she began grimacing (or tried to, anyway) in a petulant manner. "You know," she said, slurring her words, "my present for them was still better than a bloody exes box."

"Better in what way?" he asked carefully; the misspeak was a bit telling to him.

She pointed at him. "It cost more," she said, as if that were the only explanation necessary.

He grabbed the wine bottle, pushing the cork back in.

"What are you doing?" she asked, looking as if he were about toss a puppy into the Thames.

"You've had quite enough," he said firmly, keeping his voice low so the boys didn't hear.

"I'm fine."

"You're plastered, Sarah."

She pursed her lips. "I think I should go."

"You are in no condition to drive."

"Call me a taxi then."

He sighed. "It's Christmas night," he said in a more conciliatory tone. "Please stay a little longer for the sake of the boys. I don't want to send you home in a taxi on Christmas night."

She looked down. "Fine," she said. "Just fine."

Within a few moments it became clear to him that she was having trouble standing, so he led her to his bed, pulled back the sheets, and laid her down to sleep it off.

Shortly after switching the light off in his room, he diverted to the boys' room to tell them it was time to end the game and get ready for bed.

"Where'd Sarah go?" asked Matt as he put away the controllers; every time they called her that instead of 'Mum', Scott cringed a little inside.

"She's… having a little lie down before she heads out," said Scott.

"Oh, you mean…" began Fred with a grin, and then to Scott's horror, he mimed glugging from a bottle. For his part, Matt looked a little more concerned.

"She's done it before," said Matt darkly.

It was the first hint Scott had that she might have had a drink problem. He carefully asked the boys if she had ever done anything so foolish as drive them when she'd been drinking, and they shook their heads solemnly, but he thought he would have to have a talk with her all the same.

He ended up pulling a blanket out of the linen closet and sleeping on the sofa, which, as it turned out, was exceptionally comfortable. He did not awaken until he felt a hand on his arm, followed by a quiet, "I'm sorry."

Thanks to so many years in the military, he was awake instantly to come face to face with Sarah, who looked a bit bleary with imperfect makeup from a rough night's sleep on it. "It's all right," he said automatically; she looked contrite, and he was inclined to forgive her. "How are you feeling?"

She waved her hand dismissively. "It's not all right," she said. "Drinking on Christmas night like that. I'll get a handle on it. I promise."

"The boys mentioned this isn't the first time you had a bit too much wine."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry." She stood again. "I should go."

"Stay for breakfast. I'll make pancakes."

"No, I shouldn't."

"You should," he said, feeling a distinct sense of déjà vu; last night was playing out again. "I insist."

She seemed to feel the same: "I'll stay for the boys."

He started breakfast—pancakes and sausage links, with fresh-brewed coffee for the adults—while she went into the loo to tidy herself up. The scent of breakfast cooking lured the boys up and out of bed, still fuzzy-eyed and mussed hair, but excited for pancake breakfast.

To an outside observer it might have looked like an idyllic family moment, and it was a genuinely lovely morning. Sarah's contrition for the night before made her softer and gentler than usual, and it was a side of her he liked seeing; it reminded him of what drew him to her in the first place, all those years ago. Then she had to go; with a kiss to each of their sons she gathered up her things, bade Scott goodbye too, then left the flat for her car.

Maybe, just maybe, they could make things work after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2<strong>

_Sat, 5 January 2013_

Scott never thought in his wildest dreams that a pair of underpants could precipitate a paradigm shift.

The boys were still on their holiday break, not due to return to school until the following day, but he was feeling desperate to get out and stretch his legs. The boys were being recalcitrant, not wanting to go out, whining about it being their last real day of holiday; he didn't feel in the mood to fight them on it, so he—apparently abandoning all of his usual parenting standards—left the boys with the Xbox while he went for a short run.

Ordinarily, the run through Hampstead Heath would have been more than enough to do the trick and settle his restlessness, but as he rounded the curve he came upon a sight that took him quite by surprise. At first he wondered if it wasn't some sort of modern installation art, but as he drew closer, he realised he recognised the players involved.

It was Mrs Darcy, leaning against a tree, standing with her feet braced on the lowest branch; she had one hand each on her children's backsides, just standing there, not moving, not acting. It seemed she could only look between the children; in assessing the situation, he realised there was really was little she could do that wouldn't risk injury to one or the other children, or to herself.

"Everything all right up there?" he called, jogging ever closer.

Mabel smiled from her perch in the tree, said matter-of-factly, "Is Mr Wolkda."

Slowly, Mrs Darcy tried looking back over her shoulder at him in a very precarious way, then turned back around just as he slowed to a halt and repeated his query.

"Yes! No! Everything's great!" she said in a manner that was ridiculously unconvincing. "Just, um, climbing a tree!"

"Yes, I see that." He could also see… well, her jeans had slipped a bit. There was no mistaking the black lacy fabric peeking up from the top of the waist band. He knew she desperately needed assistance, that there was no way out of the scenario without it, but he was willing to humour her, and see how long she'd brazen it out before caving. The view she afforded him certainly made the waiting easier.

"Right," he said abruptly, after a good fifteen to twenty seconds. "Good. Well. I'll be off then. Bye!"

He took a step back as she called "Bye!" over her shoulder; he suspected she was bluffing, which was proven correct when she almost immediately added: "Um, Mr Wallaker?"

"Yes?" he asked.

She was straining to look at him again. "Could you just…?"

He had only been waiting for her to ask.

First he told Billy to sit properly on the branch, then, drawing on exercises they had been practising in class, jump and roll to safety; he saw Mrs Darcy's face go a shade paler as Billy heeded these commands without hesitation.

Next came Mabel's rescue. This necessitated drawing himself up close to Mrs Darcy, so he said with all due politeness, "Now, Mrs Darcy, if you'll forgive me…" With that, he placed one foot on each of the two lower branches beside hers; and just like that he was against her as she was against the tree. "I'm going to take hold of…" The perfume she wore—light, natural, intriguing—caused a momentary hitch in his voice. "…Mabel." He reached up past her to take hold of the girl, and once he had her, told Mrs Darcy to make her way out from between himself and the tree and jump down, which she did. Only then did he scoop Mabel up and onto his shoulder, before stepping down too, then placed her safely on the ground.

Mabel, again with those big blue eyes looking up at him with solemnity, said, "I thaid Fuckoon."

"I nearly said that too," he said to her, though he'd never been truly worried. "But we're all right now, aren't we?"

From his side he heard Billy's voice, asking him if he wanted to play football; this immediately reminded him of his boys at home, only ten and eleven, on their own in the flat, which he could never admit to a student or his parent. "Got to get home, I'm afraid," he said, "to, er… the family." After a stern warning to avoid the upper branches further, he noted the look of annoyance at his scold before he took off towards home, moving his arms to take his mind off of what had just transpired.

"Mr Wallaker?"

Scott stopped, turned, and faced her again, waiting for her to speak.

"Thank you," she said at last, then added, "Will you follow me on Twitter?"

He drew his brows together in puzzlement. "Absolutely not."

He got home much more quickly than he expected, probably due to his distraction over what had happened. He found the boys exactly where he'd left them, the flat intact, much to his relief.

"Boys?"

They murmured in the affirmative, not stopping their marauding in the game.

"Pause it," he said sternly. He waited until they paused the game and he had their full attention before speaking again. "Tell me… what is Twitter?"

They boys looked to one another, then to their father again. "Well, Dad, it's a place where people write stuff," said Fred.

"Short stuff," added Matt.

"Right, right," he said, the vaguest glimmer of recognition from a news programme or similar. "Have you ever used it?"

"No way," said Matt. "We're not allowed at school."

"But do you know how it works?"

"Sorta. Why?"

"Just… curious. How do I look at it?"

"You can get the app on your phone," Matt offered.

He thought of his plain old utilitarian flip phone. "What about on a computer?"

"Yeah, usually," said Matt, who then smirked. "But yours is kind of a relic."

Fred snickered.

"Not very helpful," Scott said darkly.

The boys took that for the hint it was. They went to the computer, booted it up, and after doing a stack of system updates they helped him bring up the website.

"Did you want to sign up?" asked Fred brightly.

"No," he said. "Go on, back to your game. I've got something to do."

Dutifully the boys retreated without question, and he turned back to the screen (making a mental note to rearrange the room so that his back was not as much to the door) in order to search—except he realised quite quickly that searching Twitter for "Mrs Darcy" was a bit of a fruitless task, because it brought up page after page of results, most of which appeared to be related to the Jane Austen book _Pride and Prejudice_.

He was rather embarrassed to admit that he didn't even know her first name.

He sat back in the desk chair, blowing impatient air through his teeth. He wasn't even sure why he was bothering to look, and felt a bit silly for even trying.

He shut down the computer.

Though he pushed the events of the day out of his conscious mind, the subconscious had other thoughts, particularly what had been on inadvertent display, particularly after he saw her at school the following day and could not stop himself thinking about what she might be wearing under her clothes. On Monday night, he dreamt of her, dreamt of the pants, and though in bliss through the dream, he woke to annoyance and frustration with himself and his apparent inability to control his thoughts and his urges.

…

Scott had taken to hanging around the front of the school for reasons totally unrelated to Mrs Darcy (or so he told himself). On that Friday, he realised that Billy Darcy was later than usual, and there was no sign of his mother or him dashing up the hill.

He was therefore taken quite aback to see the boy accompanied not by his mother, but by a man he'd never seen before; he was tall, lanky, with short brownish hair, and he had a smile for something Billy was saying; this man was wearing a suit and generally had an appearance of an office professional of some kind. Could this be the elusive Mr Darcy? "Billy, good morning," said Scott, then addressed the newcomer. "You must be Billy's—"

"Uncle Daniel," supplied Billy. "Had a bit of a delay getting out the door this morning after our little sleepover."

"Ah," Scott said, his eyes flashing to Daniel. "Are you Mrs Darcy's brother?"

Daniel chuckled. "No, thank goodness. Just her ex, and the godfather to the sprogs." He affectionately ruffled Billy's hair. "Daniel Cleaver," he said, holding out the ruffling hand, which Scott accepted as a proffered handshake.

_Who asks an ex to be a godparent? And who lets their kids go on a sleepover on a school night?_ Understandably, Scott was a bit taken aback, and out of habit he replied only, "Mr Wallaker."

"He's my sports teacher," supplied Billy.

"Ah, yes, should have guessed." Daniel leaned in, and when he spoke again he had lowered his voice. "Listen… could you not tell Bridget that I was late? She threatened to do unspeakable things to my car if I kept the kids up too late again."

Scott nodded, thinking that such a request was fairly rich coming from her; belatedly it occurred to him that he now knew her first name. Bridget. "He's not technically late, not when he's with me, but I'd better get him to class. Nice to meet you, Mr Cleaver."

"Likewise." Daniel turned to Billy. "See you soon, buddy," he said with a grin and a wink. "And remember, not a word to your mum about the late night."

Billy smiled and winked back.

With that the man departed; as they walked away, Scott could only reflect on one thing: her name. How pleased and surprised he was to learn her name was not something pompous or pretentiously upper-class, but something rather surprisingly traditional and down-to-earth. Surprised, he supposed, because it did not seem to match his mental idea of her.

Much later that day, during his sport class with the younger boys, he noticed Billy sitting out on the side of the pitch. The boy could barely keep his eyes open. Scott sauntered over to Billy and asked, "So, exactly how late was 'late', Billy?"

Billy startled to wakefulness. "Sorry," he said. Then, after a pensive-looking moment, he asked, "You won't tell my mum, will you?"

He looked down to the boy.

"She might not let me stay over anymore," Billy went on, looking worried. "We do lots of guy stuff together, like play football and Xbox. He's the only one I've got to do that stuff with."

"The only one?" asked Scott.

Billy nodded. "Uncle Jamie and Uncle Peter live really far away and Uncle Tom only likes watching football for the boys."

He felt sad for Billy and nodded. Not one other male adult in his life, not even his father? "I won't say a word."

"Thanks, Mr Wallaker."

He stood there near Billy to observe the match, but his mind was tangled in thought again. This exchange with Billy provided Scott with the second revelation of the day: Mrs Darcy was an ex-Mrs Darcy. He supposed there was a statistical chance they were still married in name, but he thought of the ring on her wedding finger, wondered how she could still keep the band for a man who wasn't around for their children. Perhaps, Scott thought with a scowl, it was enough for her that he sent a big fat cheque once in a while.

* * *

><p><em>Weds, 18 January 2013<em>

The predicted snow finally came that day. All the parents came to get their children earlier than normal, including Mrs Darcy, who turned up while the queen bee of all of the mums, Nicolette Martinez, stood there and talked—flirted, if he was to be honest—with him. The differences between the two women couldn't be starker: there was Mrs Martinez in her long fur coat and giant, sparkling bag, and then there was Bridget, who looked ready for a little mountaineering in the Alps in her fitted ski gear and ski goggles.

Scott burst out with a laugh at the thought.

"Mummeee!"

It was the Darcy children, running towards their mother with utter glee, begging her to take them sledging. It brought to mind his earlier comment to her about the snow, about plans to climb trees, and her childlike delight at the prospect of snowfall. He found it unexpectedly and refreshingly charming that it was more than just for show.

"Yes! I've got the sledges in the car!" With this comment she shot him an imperious look, pulled her goggles down, then took the kids and swept out of the school.

"I'm not sure who's going to enjoy the sledging more," commented Mrs Martinez drolly, "the children or Bridget."

"Maybe you should take your boys sledging," Scott said.

She looked at him as if he'd suggested she instead take them to Poundland. It was the response he'd expected, yet it hadn't stopped him from suggesting it. Her comment had annoyed him; it was one thing to have a running commentary in his head of the critical thoughts he had about Mrs Darcy, but another thing altogether to hear someone else do the same. It was almost as if he needed reassurance for a thought he hadn't quite defined yet.

He saw the last of the children out, then departed too; he made up for the fact that he had missed lunch and wanted some exercise, to boot, by taking a brisk walk over to his favourite pub. The route to this pub took him through Regent's Park, past Primrose Hill. The sound of laughter there caught his attention, and he slowed when he realised that in the small group of sledgers was Billy, Mabel, and Mrs Darcy herself.

And Mrs Darcy wasn't just standing and supervising the children; she was on the sledge with Mabel, laughing and shrieking loudly (he recognised her voice) as they flew down the hill. At the bottom of the hill, she stood and brushed the snow off of herself with a few flicks of the wrist; the outfit that had seemed so ludicrous in the school now seemed all too sensible, so much so that he felt terrible that he'd laughed.

He had to admit the more he saw of her, the more of an enigma she was. The person he thought she was—another in the mould of Mrs Martinez, without need for a job, whose days were filled with hair appointments and mani-pedis—did not at all reconcile with the person she seemed to be—a loving, doting mum sledging with the kids. It was most disconcerting to him.

…

Billy's gaping yawn caught Scott's attention a few days later, and the first thing he thought (with some amusement) was that the boy had figured out some way to convince his mother to let him stay up long past his bedtime, or had perhaps stayed overnight with Uncle Daniel once more.

At the end-of-day school pickup, however, he was surprised to see that Mrs Darcy was there early, even before the bell, sitting on the wall looking utterly shattered. She hadn't seen him there in his position just inside the door of the building, and out of curiosity, he decided to not make his presence known and instead observe her.

She had Mabel in her arms, holding her close, looking like she needed Mabel's hug more than Mabel needed hers. It struck him that with the voluminous winter coat wrapped around her, she bore more than just a passing resemblance to a Renaissance Madonna, only sadder, more tragic. He wondered if Mabel had also stayed up too late, was also tired, hence her sitting much more calmly than was usual…

He was about to ask if all was well, but the bell rang at that moment, and as if a switch flipped, she pulled herself together in anticipation of Billy's appearance. Mabel jumped down from her mother's lap and bounced around as if nothing was wrong; Scott was assured in that regard, anyway.

When Billy came out she was waiting for him, crouched down and took him in her arms for a hug. She was a bit more overly affectionate than usual, he supposed, but it was sweet to see her comb her fingers through his dark hair, smile at him with such love.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he heard Billy say sheepishly. "You don't have to make such a big deal."

"Of course I do," she said in return, her voice nearly tremulous. At that moment she glanced up and saw Scott's gaze trained on them. He nodded, held up his hand in greeting, then turned away.

As he did, he nearly walked directly into Alan Pitlochry-Howard, who had a bit of a smile on his face. It was obvious that the man had also been watching the interaction. "Oh," he said, looking a bit sheepish to have been caught. "Such a tender moment, wouldn't you say? Very clear they mean everything to her."

Scott grunted a bit of a non-committal answer before pardoning himself to return to his classroom. While the interaction did seem sweet and tender, he was more convinced than ever that Billy had kept her up in his bid for independence, that she hadn't been strong enough to discipline him, even if it meant neither got the sleep they needed. Whatever had happened, Scott thought with certainty that her state was related to his… and now she seemed to be apologising to her son for attempting to be the parent, for wielding authority. Very strange, and to his way of thinking, rather unacceptable, which was a shame; Billy was showing such potential, but his chances were potentially being ruined by an overindulgent mother.

* * *

><p><em>Fri, 1 February 2013<em>

Over the last fortnight, Scott and Sarah had made a real effort to work on their relationship; Sarah in particular had been making a special effort to show him she had changed, to make up for the things she'd done to hurt him and to break up their marriage. He'd had an especially nice time alone with her at dinner the night before; something about her attitude, her dress, her smile had harkened back to their earliest days together, and their evening, enjoyable as it was, had not ended with dinner, but together in bed. In the stark light of day he realised that the wine he'd drunk had certainly softened his reticence around the edges. The sex itself had been more of a comfortable and familiar thing than it had been passionate or lustful; he wasn't even honestly sure if she'd actually found satisfaction. In fact, he couldn't help but wonder if the hints of emotion he _had_ seen had been because she'd let the Botox treatment lag behind.

Still, the morning had been pleasant enough, a nice reminder of the hope they shared of reconciliation, of a happy future for them and their children. Now he was on a quick errand on his way to the school, in order to pick up a small bottle of Nurofen; he'd had a persistent pain in his shoulder and he did not keep painkillers around as he didn't like taking them, and had never needed them when he was younger. Succumbing to the need now had turned his mood surly. While there, he remembered the need to replenish the plasters in his personal first aid kit (he'd used the last one on his finger, on a paper cut).

He stood in line, ready to check out, when the contents of the basket at the till next to his caught his attention: empty, save for a single box of Durex. He was smirking a bit when he realised the basket belonged to a woman, and that the woman was, of all people, Mrs Darcy. He turned his gaze forward and pretended he hadn't been looking, though he was unable to rein in smirk at the corner of his mouth.

Near the end of his purchase's transaction, to his surprise she addressed him. "Terrible weather for the rugby match today, isn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's sometimes rather enjoyable in the mud." Purchase concluded, he picked up his carrier bag. "Enjoy your weekend."

As he left, however, his amusement turned to annoyance. She had obviously come to Boots directly after dropping the children to school; perhaps she had more than hairdresser appointments during the course of the day, after all. She was perfectly within her right to purchase condoms, of course; she was single, still young and quite attractive, so it made sense that she'd be enjoying male attention.

…but whoever this male was, he was either brand new in her life or wasn't a fixture, or else Billy never would have made mention of not having someone with whom to do 'guy stuff'. Perhaps this was the source of his irritation: in deciding to embark on a dalliance, she had apparently not even considered her children.

When Monday morning came around, he noticed a marked difference in Mrs Darcy, one he did not think he was imagining: she was veritably glowing, bubbly and radiant… and obviously happy as she beamed him a smile. _'Enjoy your weekend', indeed_, he thought grumpily; his own had not been great, given the sad realisation he'd had that Sarah was not nearly as pleasant when he was sober. He also had admittedly spent far too much time, for no good reason whatsoever, imagining the sort of man for whom Mrs Darcy might have gone. Or men; maybe she had been—

_None of my business_, he thought.

* * *

><p><em>Mid-March 2013<em>

There was a woman with Mabel who wasn't Mrs Darcy.

This thought registered immediately. Since Scott did not see Billy's end of school day pickup every day, it was certainly possible that she had come for Billy before, but this change in the routine he had come to know was disconcerting, so he went to greet them and introduce himself to her. He admitted too that he was curious about who she was and, by the same token, why Mrs Darcy had not come for her children herself.

"Hello," he said with a smile.

"Hi, Mr Wolkda," said Mabel brightly.

"Hi Mabel," he said, then directed his gaze from Mabel to the woman. "I'm Mr Wallaker, Billy's sport teacher. I don't think we've met."

"Oh, I've heard about you from Billy," she said. "I'm Chloe. Bridget keeps me around to keep an eye on the children."

Scott's brows raised in surprise, both at the familiarity of the address, and the apparent expense of—"A nanny, then?"

Chloe chuckled. "Well, she likes to call me that but I don't live in and all. Not anymore, anyway; I was around more when they were very small, poor things."

_Poor things indeed, with a mum and a nanny to coddle to them_, he thought meanly.

Chloe went on: "She had an appointment or something, so I came instead. She grouses about it but she really does like getting them from school."

_Heaven forfend the hairdresser's missed_, he thought. "Well, let me see if I can tear Billy away from his friends. Pardon me."

He went across the grass to where Billy and a group of six or seven others were standing in a circle, kicking a football back and forth to each other. "Oi, Billy," said Wallaker, "your—er, Chloe's here. The lot of you, your parents will be here soon, so time to pack it up."

"Yes, Mr Wallaker," they all murmured as the impromptu exercise broke apart.

As Chloe herded Billy and Mabel away, he wondered again about the appointment, wondered if it wasn't the hairdresser's so much as an afternoon assignation… but as he thought it, his shook his head as if to shake the thought away. Her personal life was none of his business, and he had a personal life of his own with which to contend.

* * *

><p><em>Thurs, 18 April 2013<em>

Scott had thought the competition and the pretence of the Junior Branch mums-the Mumserati, as he not-so-fondly thought of them—was a problem before, but this… the cutthroat behaviour leading up to the choosing of academic teams was starting to reach desperate new heights. The campaigning amongst the mothers to jockey their children into positions deemed advantageous to future academic endeavours—at the tender age of six, no less; not that the older boys fared any better—without having earned those positions was enough to set his blood to boiling. Scott was secretly glad—well, almost—that the lot of them had been diagnosed with nits; rather like a plague among the land of the privileged.

He had never been shy about saying what he really thought, and now, was less so, especially after a night featuring a particularly unwelcome return of his wartime nightmares. He had been brutally honest with Mrs Martinez about her son, Atticus, and the fact that his ability to play football was abysmal. The boy had not earned a place; the boy would not get a place.

Nor would Billy Darcy place in the chess tournament for his chess class. He was eager, he was earnest, but he was just not good enough.

Perhaps the lack of sleep was making him slightly more bad-tempered, but Scott had nearly reached the limits of his patience with the constant demand for special privileges when, just after getting the boys in line in time to his short, sharp whistle tweets, Mrs Darcy came for Billy. As he drew closer to where they were, coming up behind the dishevelled boy, Billy said to her in a sad voice, "Mummy. I didn't get picked for chess."

The look that Mrs Darcy gave to her son surprised him; certainly sadder, more melancholy than the situation warranted, something he had noticed happened frequently with her and her children. She came up to her son, slipped an arm around to grasp his shoulders, smiling tenderly. "It doesn't matter about being picked or winning," she said. "It's who you are that counts."

"Of course it matters," Scott erupted; 'who you are' (or, more rightly, 'who your father is' or 'how much money your family has') had nothing to do with making the chess team; it had to be about demonstrating proficiency and winning matches. "He has to practise. He has to earn it." He turned to leave, muttering to himself once more how unbelievable the sense of entitlement the mothers at this school had.

"Practise?" said Mrs Darcy in return, her voice sweet but dripping with sarcasm. "Why, I'd never have thought of that! You must be terribly clever, Mr Wallaker. I mean, sir."

He could only stare at her.

She went on in that same tone of soft sarcasm: "What has this got to do with the Sports Department?"

"I teach the chess class."

"But how lovely! Do you use the whistle?"

He was in utter disbelief at her complete impertinence and found himself at a loss for words; motion to his side distracted him and in his frustration he yelled at Eros to get out of the flowerbed.

Billy went on: "Mummy, the ones that got picked get two days off school to go to the chess tournament."

She told him she would practise with him; Billy retorted that she was rubbish at it.

"Well, I was letting you win because you're a child," she said almost petulantly. "And anyway, it isn't fair because you have chess classes."

"Perhaps you could join the chess classes, Mrs Darcy?" he said, then, to needle her, he added, "There is an age limit of seven, but if we stretch that to mental age, I'm sure you'll be fine. Did Billy tell you his other news?"

"Oh!" Billy exclaimed, looking instantly happier. "I've got nits!"

He watched her face go instantly white as she grabbed her hair. "Nits?!"

Yes, he told her with a glee that was probably improper, nits. All of them. "I realise this will cause a National Emergency amongst the north London Mumserati and their coiffeurs but you simply need to nit-comb them. And yourself, of course."

She looked whiter still, looked genuinely, worryingly upset, and didn't say a word.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Yes, no, super!" she said in a way that suggested it was not in fact super, like out at the tree in January. "Everything's fine, jolly good, bye then, Mr Wallaker." She then took each of her children by the hand and led them off.

It wasn't until she'd walked away that he realised he had been defensive for no good reason at all; she had defied his expectation, hadn't badgered him to give Billy a spot in the tournament… and the surprising surge of concern he felt for her when all he'd wanted to do was give her a hard time. This realisation made him feel more frustrated and irritated with everything, but mostly with himself.

"Everything okay with Mrs Darcy?"

He turned and came face to face with Valerie, who was obviously on her way out of work for the day. "Fine," he grumbled.

"She didn't look fine."

"I can only tell you what she told me," he said.

"You don't look fine, either."

In this frustration, he ran his hand over his face and vented aloud, "Mrs Darcy can be very…" He exhaled roughly in his exasperation, unable even to find the right word to describe the levels and dimensions of his irritation. "Well, it's no wonder her husband took off."

Valerie said nothing for so long that he took his hand away from his face to ensure she was still there. She looked almost as white as Mrs Darcy had been, and looked both mortified and upset.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"That," she said darkly, "is _not_ funny."

"It wasn't meant to be," he said.

"Mr Wallaker," she said, hissing in a very angry tone, "are you _actually_ suggesting Mark Darcy intentionally put himself in harm's way, _drove over a landmine_, to escape a wife and two young children that he loved?"

To this he could say nothing but, "What?"

"He died in Sudan in 2008," she said, still obviously furious with him. "All over the news. Huge story for weeks. How in God's name did you forget?"

"I didn't _forget_," he said, his voice reduced to ash. "I was in Afghanistan."

She brought her hand to her mouth. "Oh my God," she gasped. "You really did _not_ know. Afghanistan? In the war?"

In that unguarded moment Scott had revealed something no one but his friend the headmaster knew. He could only nod. "Landmine," he repeated quietly. What a terrible way to go.

"Mrs Darcy was completely devastated, as you might expect," Valerie said. "And with that little girl of hers only three months old when he died. What she's been through, raising those children alone… five years later and she's just returning to the land of the living. Poor thing."

The 'poor thing' comment triggered a remembrance of what Chloe had said once, something he'd discounted as totally trivial at the time. He felt an utter arse.

"I'm surprised Headmaster Miller didn't say anything to you," Valerie said.

"He probably thought I knew," he said. "Everyone probably assumes I knew." Even Mrs Darcy—_Bridget_—probably thought he knew, and thought him an utter monster. After a beat, he added, "Why Miller in particular?"

"He and Mr Darcy were… well… not the _best_ of friends, but a bit more than acquaintances," she said. "I'm sure he could tell you all about how they met; he still speaks so fondly of Mr Darcy."

Scott's head was in a whirl; this truly changed everything. "Yes," he said. "I'll do that."

"If you don't mind me saying, Mr Wallaker, you look a bit peaked."

He offered a smile; he felt peaked. "I don't mind at all. Well. Best get home. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Mr Wallaker."

Scott went to his car, got behind the wheel, but didn't engage the engine. He contemplated various things he'd heard from or been told by Chloe, from Alan, from even Billy himself—_He used to be Santa_—that he had so woefully misinterpreted.

Motion out of the corner of his eye and a tap on the glass of his window brought him back to the present; it was the headmaster who looked very concerned. Scott brought the window down.

"Scott, mate, are you okay?"

"Yes. No." Scott looked away, mind working, a hundred questions roiling around in his head at once. "Are you free for dinner tonight?"

"Pardon?"

"I…" he began, then stopped, looking up again. "There's something I'd like to discuss with you and I don't think my vehicle is the appropriate place."

"Um, let me check with my wife," he said, "but I'm sure it's fine."

"If not dinner, then just come out for a pint. It's just something I'd prefer to talk about tonight, if you don't mind."

"Okay," Martin said.

"Pub 'round the corner?"

"Sure." He paused. "Is it something wrong with you?"

"No, no. I'm fine."

"Okay."

With that Scott got up and out of the car. While they walked, Martin rang up his wife, who apparently said it was all right for him to have dinner out, as they both ordered a full meal each and pints.

They took a seat at a table; the place was fairly empty given the time of day. "So, Scott, what's going on? You look like you've got the worst news of your life. Sarah okay? The boys?"

He shook his head. "They're fine. It's not them. I… learned the truth about Billy Darcy's father today. I'm feeling a bit stunned."

"Learned the truth… are you saying you…" As he spoke his mind clearly made the connection, and he sat back in his chair. "Oh, Christ. You were abroad."

"That's one way of putting it," he said. "I understand you… knew Mr Darcy."

"Yes," he said. "I knew him. We met in 1997—Jesus, _that_ many years ago—at a Law Council dinner. I went with my girlfriend at the time, Louise. Actually, I take that back. I'd met Mark, before that dinner, at some work do of Louise's, before he'd started going out with Bridget. Mrs Darcy. I then met Bridget, just after they'd started going out. A world of difference in him, let me tell you. Usually so serious, so poised, and it was so very clear that he was _completely_ smitten with her." He smiled. "Oh God, I almost forgot. Bridget spouted the most lefty speech amongst all of these uptight lawyers, talking about how it's not this per cent and that per cent that's important, but the principle of sharing, and kindness—" Now Martin laughed. "—and Nelson Mandela… and there's Mark—a staunch Tory himself—looking at her fondly. _Proudly_. It made _such_ an impression on me. _She_ did. You should have seen her then. So funny, witty, full of life." He paused, exhaling roughly, then took a sip from his pint. "It didn't work out with Louise and myself, but Mark and I kept in sporadic contact. He took it as a sign that I was the headmaster when they came to sign Billy up for Infants, shortly before…" He trailed off. "Sorry. He was a good man. He didn't deserve to die, especially not like that. Leaving behind his baby girl. Mabel. Three months old at the time. Never even got to know him." He drank down the rest of his pint, where Scott had barely touched his. "Bridget wasn't the same after that. _Hasn't_ been the same. Only now she's starting to smile again, come back to life, but she'll still have these moments where she's overtaken by utter sadness, seemingly out of nowhere." He paused. Scott could only think of all of those time he'd seen that, himself; the tragic Madonna. "And Billy. It must be hard on her for her son to be the spitting image of his father."

Hearing the details of her past, of their past, blew Scott away. He picked up his pint and drained it in one long swallow; it was something he could do without conscious thought as his mind whirled around and around. Everything was falling into place now. Everything.

"Sorry to go on like that," said Martin. "Once I started talking it felt like I couldn't stop. Such a terrible tragedy, though."

With that, the food was ready; they ordered a second pint each and ate mostly in silence. "You know," said Scott at last, holding the nearly empty pint glass and gazing at it without really seeing it, "I appreciate the candour, appreciate what you've told me."

"You're welcome," he said. "Might have said something sooner if I'd known you were in the dark. You must have thought it strange we all look out after Billy like we do."

"A bit."

Martin brought his brows together. "So what was it that prompted your asking now?"

"I embarrassed myself," he said. "I was feeling frustrated after an interaction with Mrs Darcy, and when Valerie asked me what was the matter, I totally lost my cool with her. That's how the misunderstanding came to light. She explained I was wrong, and suggested I talk to you about your friendship with Mr Darcy."

"Hm," Martin said thoughtfully. "Frustrated, how?"

Scott didn't really want to tell his friend that the frustration lay mostly in his own ignorance and his preconceived notions. "I didn't realise the extent of her situation," he said at last. "That she was a single parent due to such abominable circumstances."

"Does that happen frequently? Frustration, I mean, in dealing with Mrs Darcy?"

"I didn't understand why she dealt with Billy the way she did. Her responses were… unexpected." He sat up straight in his chair. "Obviously, now I know why. It's got to have been tough on her."

Martin nodded, then sighed, glancing at his watch as if he'd suddenly remembered it was a school night and looking surprised at the time. "Crikey. Best call this a night," he said, pushing back from the table. "And, truth be told, rehashing all of this has put me in a mood to give my wife a very long hug."

Scott nodded, reflecting that he did not feel the same; his boys, perhaps, but not Sarah. "Yes," he said neutrally. "Time to call it a night."

They said their goodnights and parted for their respective cars. As he drove the few blocks to his neighbourhood, he reflected, too, that he might have even liked to offer Bridget a hug in apology, for her pain and for misjudging her so badly. _If I did offer, she'd probably kick me in the shin,_ he thought, then smirked.

He took care of a little paperwork then prepared his things for school the following day, did his nightly ablutions, and then crawled into bed. However, he quickly found that he could not sleep; his mind was in overdrive with questions about what he had learned that night:

Why was Bridget's husband in a position to be killed by a landmine? Why was he there in Sudan so soon after his daughter's birth? Was he a soldier? But then why would he have been at a Law Council Dinner?

After too long tossing and turning he threw aside his bed sheets and went over to his computer, booted it up, hunt-and-pecked to bring up a search engine website, then entered his query.

_MARK DARCY DEATH_


	3. Chapter 3

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3<strong>

_Fri, 19 April 2013_

"Looking a bit rough today. Have a late night out?"

Scott merely smiled at this question from Alan, though did not otherwise answer. It had been a late night, indeed, but not for the reason he was suggesting. Not only had he found a mountain of information about the exact reason, location, and manner of death of Bridget's husband, but he had also followed several rabbit holes down to linked information.

He'd found online a touching, hilarious, yet poignant column about the Jones-Darcy wedding from a journalist friend of Bridget's, Sharon McGuire, complete with photographs of the day itself, the bride in her ivory silk looking radiant, and the groom looking like he couldn't believe his good fortune. Ms McGuire had also provided small details of the relationship that Scott imagined Bridget had not at all been comfortable about her friend sharing, like how that relationship had begun quite suddenly (coupled with verbal winks and nudges) on Christmas Day, 1995. Surprising him the most was the fact that instead of a huge affair in a cathedral in London with a reception at the likes of Claridge's, the wedding had been an intimate ceremony in her tiny hometown of Grafton Underwood; friends and family only. Scott could only think of his own enormous, lavish, and overly formal wedding for a marriage that hadn't lasted more than a handful of years.

On YouTube, he had dug up a grainy old _Good Afternoon!_ video interview from earlier in 1995, when Bridget was working as a television presenter and had interviewed Mark, the top human rights lawyer who had just successfully defended Elena Rossini. _One mystery solved: why he was in Sudan_, Scott had thought. Upon further reflection, watching the video also solved another; Martin had been absolutely correct in saying that Billy was the spitting image of his father, and he understood now why Bridget's face sometimes reflected so much pain when she looked at her son.

As he had watched the video, it was clear even before they'd been a couple that Mark had been drinking up the sight of her with his eyes, his expression.

Not that he could blame the man.

Scott stopped walking down the hall as this thought bolted through his brain. _What was that?_ he thought. _Stop it._ But even as he continued on his way to meet his first class of the day, he knew he had to face the fact that knowing the truth of her situation had obliterated any objections he might have had about her, that he could allow feelings beyond the normal care and concern of a fellow human being, the mother of one of his students. Feelings of attraction. He was not, however, ready to do so, or admit to being ready to do so.

He could not forget the photo he had seen of the grieving widow, sitting with her children, holding on to them as the last she had of her husband. The image of her despair would haunt him for a very long time, especially knowing that she had not been able to shed it for more than five years afterward. He thought briefly about the purchase of the Durex he'd witnessed in March, and wondered if the man for whom she bought them fully appreciated exactly what she had bestowed upon him, and hoped that this man wasn't just taking advantage of an emotionally vulnerable woman. If this man wasn't around for Billy, he doubted whatever it was she had with him was anything long term; she had probably just wanted to feel less alone in the world.

Try as he might, he couldn't stop thinking about Billy and Mabel; how they had been deprived of their father, and by the same token, a father figure. Scott understood now why Alan and the other teachers at the school had sort of banded together to watch out for Billy, but the more he considered it, the more he thought they'd all got it wrong. Handling him with kid gloves, sheltering him, was a mistake. Billy needed even more vigorous guidance from an adult male.

…

Now that Scott knew exactly what had happened to Mark Darcy, everything he saw his widow and children do and say was filtered through this new lens of understanding. This was especially true of Billy, with whom he spent a great deal more time.

Billy wanted so badly to participate in the upcoming Sports Day, but Scott noticed that he seemed a bit hesitant to choose an event. After a few classes' worth of seeing Billy waver this way, while the other children practiced their chosen events, Scott asked him what the problem was.

Billy seemed a bit embarrassed. "I'm not so good at sports," he admitted. "My mum plays stuff with me like football, and she tries hard but she's…" He trailed off, looking even more flustered.

Scott encouraged him gently with, "She's what?"

"She's not that good at it." Billy screwed up his features. "She ducks to avoid the ball."

Scott understood that Billy was not wanting to speak badly of his mother, or even give the appearance of speaking badly, but he knew that Billy was an honest child. "Ah," Scott said, at a loss of anything more to say. He again remembered Billy's words about having no male adults around to play football; he suspected that while Billy probably did not remember much about when his father was around, surely he could see what it was like when visiting friends whose fathers were present. Instead of trying to untangle all of the complications of the young boy's life in the middle of sports class, though, he instead asked, "Which event do you think you might like to try?"

"Hmm," he said thoughtfully with an expression of concentration that echoed his father from the video Scott had seen. "The long jump might do."

Billy was a bit taller than his classmates, so Scott said, "Yes, I think that'd do nicely. Have you tried it already?"

Billy nodded. "I didn't do very well," he said.

"How far did you jump?"

"I don't know."

"Want to show me?"

Together they walked over to where the cricket usually happened. Scott told him to use the batting crease as a jumping line since the children did not actually have a proper long jumping pit. Billy took a few steps back, then ran and jumped forward and stuck a landing like an Olympic gymnast.

It was difficult to say exactly how far he had jumped, but just roughly estimated by sight alone that he'd gotten about a meter. It wasn't the worst he'd ever seen. "Not bad."

"It's not great," Billy said dejectedly.

"Have you ever done it before?"

"Just the once before today," he said. "Maybe I should just do the egg-spoon."

Scott crouched down to be closer to Billy's height. "Billy, I'm going to let you in on a little secret," he said. "It's okay to not do so great when you're just learning how to do something. Getting good at something takes time and practice. You can't be perfect at it the first time you try it, and you can't quit just because you're not an immediate master."

Billy looked like he might start to cry. "But I get kinda mad at myself when I fail."

Given what he had learned of the man, Scott suspected Billy might be much like his father in this respect. "I know you do," said Scott. "We all do. But the trick is to keep trying. And maybe listen to someone who knows how to do it, who can maybe give you hints on how to do better."

Billy drew his brows together. "Do you know how to do it better?"

Scott stood up again. "I might."

The boy offered a hesitant. "Okay."

"All right," Scott affirmed. "Back to the crease." They lined up again, but this time, he instructed Billy to turn away from where he'd just jumped. "Now, I want you to walk away from the line, and count five steps, but only count when you put your right foot down."

Billy stared at his teacher as if he were mad, but did as asked. Scott joined him and told him to turn around again.

"Isn't this too far away?" Billy asked.

"Nope. You've got to build up a little more momentum before you jump. Now. I'm going to do something that is going to seem rude until I explain why."

"Wha—" Billy began, but stopped abruptly when Scott pushed him on the back between the shoulder blades as if to knock him down. Scott noticed the right foot was the first to come forward to keep him from falling.

"That was to see which was your dominant foot," he said.

"Oh."

Scott then went on to explain the proper posture for beginning the run towards the crease; to run with long strides and not to look down, then once he reached the crease to launch forwards vertically. He also explained the correct way to land.

"It all happens really quickly, so it might be hard to remember," he said, "and even harder to do until it becomes a habit. Don't get discouraged."

Billy grinned. "I know."

"When you first jump, you want to push out your chest, face up, almost like your chin's the front of a jet fighter." A hesitant laugh. "But to land, you have to get your legs and arms forward." Scott tried to demonstrate with his arms. "Your heels should hit the ground first, but don't just try to stop. If you do, you'll fall on your backside, an where your bum lands is where you're scored. Just keep going." Another laugh, less hesitant. "Any questions, or do you just want to give it a go?"

"One question," he said. "Will you show me how to do it?"

_Well_, Scott thought, _I did ask._

"Sure," he said, then paced himself away from the crease as he'd instructed Billy to do, then crouched and counted to three, hoping the muscle memory would kick in…. _Who am I kidding?_ he thought; _I'm just hoping not to make an utter arse of myself in front of this kid._

But he ran, he jumped, he lifted his chin and brought forward his limbs, landed solidly on his feet before momentum carried him forward another few steps. When he glanced to Billy, the boy's jaw hung slack in slight surprise.

"Wow," he said. "You jumped really far."

"That's what comes of practice. Now. Your turn."

Billy walked the paces, then turned and began his next attempt. Scott could tell instantly—from the crouching pose, to the length of the pause, to the way he ran—that Billy had attempted to memorise everything his teacher had done in order to try to play it back. His form wasn't great and he stumbled to his knees on the landing, which obviously frustrated him all over again. But he'd definitely gone farther; not by much, but farther.

"Once more," Scott said crisply.

Billy did it once more. And then again. And on the fourth attempt, his form had definitely improved, his distance was the best yet, and he landed then jogged off like Scott had.

More importantly, the boy looked like he'd just won the happiness lottery.

"Good job, Billster," said Wallaker. He walked up to Billy and patted his shoulder. "You can keep on practising. I should see how your mates are doing."

"Okay, I will," said Billy. Scott took a couple of steps away when he heard Billy add, "Mr Wallaker?"

He turned back to look at the boy. "Yes, Billy?"

"Thanks," he said. The grin hadn't left his face.

The other boys appeared to be getting on well practising the three-legged race, horseshoes, wheelbarrow race, but there was a bit of a commotion going on around where the boys were practising the sack race. He found a group of them sitting around Atticus, who sat on the grass, knees up, bent over with his head between his knees.

The boys around him parted and Scott crouched. "Hey, Atticus. Everything okay?"

Atticus' voice was muffled. "Don't tell my mum I'm not good at this either."

Scott felt for the boy, whose mother, Mrs Martinez, was one of the most A-type personalities he had ever known. "She won't hear it from me." After a moment's thought, he patted Atticus briefly on the back. "Come on now. Take a deep breath and let's try again."

With patience and encouragement, after several more stumbles, Scott was able to help Atticus succeed at jumping while in (and holding) the sack. Where Billy had shown instant pleasure at the reward of his success, however, Atticus was still radiating nervousness and self-doubt. Billy was in general a more even-keeled child, Scott realised; Atticus was, to coin a phrase, a basket case.

After class, Scott watched as Billy ran, bursting with pride, to his mother to (undoubtedly) tell her about his progress with the long jump. She smiled and offered obvious praise, but in unguarded moments, when Billy was busy zipping up his knapsack, the brave face she wore as a mask would slip, and she would look… sad. Thoughtful. Lost. Only for a moment though. And then the mask would snap back into place.

She glanced in his direction; he smiled, nodded his head in acknowledgment, before she turned away. In general, Scott had certainly made an effort to be less abrasive towards Bridget, though he had no idea if she'd even noticed. She seemed indifferent, and honestly, he hardly blamed her. He had treated her unfairly.

Scott saw Mrs Martinez arrive just then. As much as he didn't want to tell Atticus' mother what had happened to her son that day, it was really his moral obligation to do so, even though he suspected the root cause of his insecurity was her overbearing standard of perfection. He offered a stiff smile to her, then said in a very low voice, "Just wanted to let you know that Atticus had a very mild panic attack today during sport class."

"What?" she said, looking horrified, bringing her hand to her chest. "Everything's okay, right?"

"Yes, he's fine," Scott said. "Very mild."

She waved her hand dismissively. "No, I mean what about his _marks_? You're not going to mark him down for this, are you?"

"Of course not," Scott said, pursing his lips very tightly.

"Good," she said tartly, then started to dig into her giant, bejewelled handbag. "I might be able to squeeze him in to see his therapist before dinner." She pulled out her quarry, her equally bejewelled mobile phone, then pressed a few buttons, pressed the mobile to her ear, and walked away barking into it without so much as a thank you to him.

"Unbelievable," he murmured to himself. The woman expressed less concern for his well-being than his marks, obvious even in the way she grabbed him and his brother by the upper arm and frogmarched them both out of the schoolyard.

He glanced to where Bridget, beaming a smile herself, was still attempting to corral her happy children out of the school yard. They seemed to be rambling on, eager to share their day with her, wearing giant grins, laughing and bouncing around with boundless energy.

The contrast was startling.

* * *

><p><em>Mon, 13 May 2013<em>

No matter what he said, no matter what he did, Scott never seemed to quite get it right. His intentions had been nothing but good, yet one comment by her had been enough to flare up his insecurity and he'd lashed out, offending her when he least meant to, and in the end, he had come off sounding like the world's worst chauvinist pig.

It had started as a routine school day, and ended as one, too, until he happened to wander up towards where Alan and Bridget were conversing, presumably about Billy; the former looked as anxious as he ever did around her, and the latter looked a bit horrified.

"The spelling test is nothing to worry about," Alan said gingerly, as if treading on thin ice; it was more of the 'kid glove' treatment that Scott had grown to dislike. "Billy's a very bright boy, he just needs—"

"He needs more organisation at home," Scott interrupted, his patience lost at last.

Alan looked flustered. "But, you see, Mr Wallaker, Billy has had a very difficult—"

"Yes," said Scott in a softer, more sympathetic voice. "I know what happened to Billy's father."

After a few more reassuring words to Bridget, who had begun to glare icily at him at the mention of her beloved Mark, Alan left them. Scott felt compelled to continue.

"Billy needs discipline and structure," he explained. "_That's_ what will help him."

She scowled. "He does have discipline. And he gets enough of your sort of discipline on the sports field. And in the chess class."

He very nearly scowled back at her. Sharply he said, "You call _that_ discipline? Wait 'til he gets to boarding school."

At this she flinched as if physically struck. "Boarding school?" she said, spitting out the words as if they tasted bitter. "He's not going to _boarding school_."

"What's wrong with boarding school?" he retorted hotly. "My boys are at boarding school. Pushes them to their limits, teaches them valour, courage—"

"What about when things go wrong?" she interrupted plaintively. "What about someone to listen to them when they don't win? What about fun, what about love and cuddles?"

He was at a loss. Was she actually insinuating that he was a bad father for putting his boys in boarding school? He felt his anger building. "Cuddles? _Cuddles_?" he asked.

"Yes," she said triumphantly. "They're children—they're not productivity machines. They need to learn how to manage when things don't go right."

"Get on top of the homework," he barked. "More important than sitting in the hairdresser's."

The high-intensity glare returned to her eyes. "I will have you know," she said in a tight, seething voice, "that I am a professional woman and am writing an updating of _Hedda Gabbler_ by Anton Chekhov, which is shortly to go into production with a movie company." He was stunned to hear this. She still worked? It only was a moment later, when she'd begun to walk away with Billy (muttering how rude and bossy he'd been), that Scott reacted to what she'd said… and perhaps, feeling a bit stung, he felt the need to sting back:

"Mrs Darcy?"

She spun around, obviously furious.

"_Hedda Gabbler_, you said?"

"Yes," she said, raising her chin defiantly.

"By Anton Chekhov?"

"Yes."

He pursed his lips. "I think you'll find it's by Henrik Ibsen. And I think you'll find Gabbler is spelt, and indeed pronounced, with just the one 'b'."

Only later did he realise that, after the daze of his thoughts had cleared, when she had called Scott rude and bossy, Billy had told his mother he liked his teacher… and the boy had seemed shocked, almost scandalised, that his mother did not.

Once home he found these thoughts persisted; he could not help but compare Billy and Atticus once more in his mind. Two more different children he could not imagine; only one of them was being raised by the rules society had deemed correct, and that boy wasn't the happy child.

_Sharing, kindness, and Nelson Mandela, over this per cent and that per cent_, Scott thought, recalling Martin's words echoing a speech she'd made in what must have felt to her like another lifetime ago. It underscored to him how, in essence, she had not really changed at all.

"Hmm," he said quietly.

…

Scott Wallaker had been born to comfort and privilege. His family was wealthy, fairly politically conservative, and for the longest while, he had been, too. However, the more he'd become aware of their status, of the inequality of it, the more he had been determined to strike out on his own and do something that mattered, to earn his way on his own merits. Something that that could make a difference.

He had enlisted for the military.

Despite the almost rebellious nature of his enlistment, he'd fortunately had the support of his family rather than the scorn. He served faithfully and honourably, but never again could war be an abstract concept to him, not after what he'd seen, and especially not after what had happened to him. He felt like the only difference his decision had ultimately made was to irrevocably change him from an idealist to something of a cynic.

Scott didn't realise that he had been trying to counteract the cynicism until he was in the middle of it: taking the job at the school with the children, trying to reclaim that feeling of doing good in the world; reconnecting with his own ex-wife and children, and trying to make a difference in his boys' lives. The former had been stymying as the parents—_Let's face it_, he thought; _the mothers_—had thrown their own roadblocks down to impede his drive for success, with their ambition and the accompanying politics.

Except for one. And she alone was whom encouraged him that what he was doing with the Junior branch boys was not in vain.

* * *

><p><em>Late May 2013<em>

For the week-long half term break, Fred and Matt came to stay with Scott in London. Every time they visited him, he could see how far they had come from that first time they'd come. For this visit, they could talk of nothing but their own upcoming Sports Day, which he'd promised to attend the instant he'd heard of it; he was grateful that it did not coincide with the Sports Day he was coordinating for his own students. He was pleased to see that his two sons were currently more interested in going down to Hampstead Heath to practise sports together than to play with their Xbox. He had, frankly, never seen them quite so enthusiastic about sport.

One of these excursions to Hampstead Heath yielded an unexpected surprise: a chance encounter with his globe-hopping musician friend, Jake Barton. It shouldn't have surprised Scott too much, though; he knew that Jake and Rebecca, his partner, had a house in Chalk Farm, which wasn't far at all from the present location. It just surprised Scott, he supposed, that Jake had alit in London and had ended up in the park while Scott happened to be there. He hadn't changed a bit; he still had longish scraggly hair, still liked wearing black, even on a warm May day.

Scott and Jake chatted and caught up a little to fill in the gaps since they'd last seen each other. He told Jake about the time he'd spent in Afghanistan, that he'd seen some bad things happen, though he did not go into all of the brutal details. He explained to Jake that now, he was just living in London, retired from service, keeping it simple. Scott pointed out his sons as they ran around, who waved their hellos, and Jake waved back before he had to continue home.

It was a good break, indeed.

As he drove home from taking the boys back to school, his mobile began to ring, but he did not have the means, or rather the technology, to take a hands-free call. When he arrived back to his house, he saw that it had been Sarah on the line, so he rang her back.

"How's everything?" he asked; she had been out of pocket visiting a long-time friend for the week.

"Just ringing to see how you and the boys are getting on. Are they around?"

He ran his hand over his forehead, feeling slightly exasperated. "I'm just home from taking them back to their school."

"Oh," she said. "Oh, sorry. I lost track, forgot it was Sunday. Did you have a good week together?"

"It was great," he said. "They are so excited about Sports Day."

"It's that time again?"

"Yes," Scott said. "Friday the seventh. We can ride together if you like."

"Can't," she said. He thought she meant she would find her own way there, but then she added, "Have the whole day booked at the spa."

He didn't quite know what to say. "Can you reschedule?"

"Uh, no," she said as if he were a daft child. "They book six months in advance."

He was becoming increasingly angry. "Don't you want to go to support your sons?"

"They _know_ I support them, dear," she said. "I don't have to sit out in the sun and feign interest in bloody sport."

A dawning realisation washed over him, and suddenly he wanted to know for sure. "Are you saying you haven't gone to their Sports Day before?"

"Too right, and why start now? You can go. It's right up your street."

"Not the entire time I've been away? None of their events?"

"Now you're just being deliberately obtuse, Scott. I said I hadn't."

A sudden mental image popped up unbidden, of Bridget Darcy playing clumsy football with Billy; of her crouched down over a chess board. A game she hated, and a game she wasn't very good at playing, respectively… all for her son.

Scott knew if he continued on with the subject now, he would say something he might later regret. "I'll go," he said icily, "but we will need to sit down and talk more about this later."

* * *

><p><em>Tues, 4 June 2013<em>

As she came into the schoolyard that afternoon with her little daughter in tow, Bridget Darcy looked distressed. He watched her pass by; he was curious and concerned (particularly at the sight of Mabel with a bandaged finger), and without a conscious thought, Scott was directly behind her, wanting to know what was going on.

He followed her into the school office just in time to hear Valerie ask her if she'd brought the form, possibly for Billy's bassoon lessons, given that the boy could speak of nothing else that day in class. He drew closer to see Bridget pulling out the contents of her large handbag, just as Valerie drew attention to his presence by saying, "Ah, Mr Wallaker."

Scott was looking at what she had pulled out of the bag: an inexplicable stack of medical leaflets, which had splayed to reveal their titles; each of them were related to sexual health or sexually transmitted diseases. "Everything going well?" he asked, a bit of a grin fixed to his face, not looking away.

"They're not mine," she said.

"Right, right," he said unconvincingly.

"They're Mabel's!" Bridget said, exasperated.

"Mabel's!" he repeated, fighting the urge to burst out with a laugh; Bridget's attempt to enlighten him made it sound so much worse than the probable truth that they were something Mabel had picked up at the doctor's. "Well, in that case, that's fine." At that she began trying to collect them up to put back in the bag at her side.

"Hey!" exclaimed Mabel from beside her mother. "Dothe are my leafletth. Give them to me!" She then lunged forward to reach into Bridget's handbag and grabbed one, which Bridget tried (and failed) to grab back. "They're my leafletth," Mabel said again, looking frustrated, underscored with, "Dammit!"

Scott crouched down beside her. "And they're very useful leaflets," he said gently, plucking the gonorrhoea leaflet from Bridget's and Mabel's grasp, then the one on syphilis protruding from the top of her handbag. "Why don't you take this one as well and give the rest to Mummy?"

Mabel complied and was placated. Bridget said calmly, "Thank you, Mr Wallaker." With that she held her head high then strode away, nearly colliding with Mabel in the process, out and down the stairs towards the gate. Again he wanted to laugh at the attempted dignity in such an absurd situation.

Scott followed her into the schoolyard; coming from an angle out of her peripheral vision, he spotted Billy approaching and looking a bit perplexed that his mother was walking away. Scott shouted after her: "Bridget!"

She stopped, turned, looked at him as if he were mad; it occurred to him that he had used her first name, something he never did with the mums, and something he certainly had never done with her.

He continued anyway. "Haven't you forgotten something?" Scott asked, his mouth crooked with his delight; could she really have been so irritated that she'd almost forget her own son?

She didn't respond, only carried on with a mute stare.

"Billy?" he prompted, turning towards the boy and gesturing; Billy, for his part, looked amused now and fought to hide a grin. He found himself grinning, too.

"She even forgets to get up sometimes," Billy said, somewhat traitorously.

"I bet."

"Come along, children!" Bridget said, raising her chin again.

"Yeth, Mother," said Mabel stoically.

"Thank you, Daughter," she replied, her voice cool and smooth. "Hurry along!" To him, she said, "Goodbye, Mr Wallaker."

He could only stand there watching the three of them retreating, the smirk not leaving his face.

"All of that, and I never did get Billy's bassoon slip from her." He turned; beside him was Valerie, who looked inordinately amused about something. "Ah well, there's always tomorrow." She looked up, and, still smirking, asked, "Did you need something, Mr Wallaker?"

"Pardon?" he asked.

"Well, I presume you came to the office for a reason."

There was a wicked twinkle to her eye, one for which he could not quite discern the meaning. "I… was just…" he began. "Concerned."

She smiled. "I thought as much," she said, then winked before about-facing it back into the building.

Scott shook his head, unable to comprehend what that response, the wink, was supposed to even mean. Who wouldn't have been concerned?

…

Scott did not see Sarah all of that week, not even a peep on that Friday, the day of their sons' Sports Day, which did not surprise him, though it did sadden him. Sports Day was a resounding success for them, Scott was pleased to note; the fact that their mother had not shown up did not dampen their spirits (it was what they had expected, after all), but their father's presence had seemed to really rally them. They were so happy and proud, and he thought of all of the years he hadn't been there, the years his sons had had no one to cheer them on from the side like their mates had. The very notion magnified his anger towards her.

He vowed that he would give her a piece of his mind the next time he saw her, which turned out to be the very next afternoon. His grim expression as he opened the door of his flat must have spoken volumes to her. "Oh my God, what's wrong?" she asked.

"Come inside." He stepped back to allow her in. When he closed the door behind her, he said, "You know what's wrong, Sarah."

"What? I'm afraid that I don't or I wouldn't have asked," she said.

"The boys, Sarah," he said sharply, his temper flaring at last. "I am furious that you can't take the time to know or even give a damn when their events are. That you can't be bothered to show up for them is appalling. The fact that they expect this as normal behaviour is unacceptable."

She looked momentarily conflicted, before a look of contrition washed over her features. "God, Scott, I am sorry. I didn't realise this meant quite so much to you."

"To _them_," he fumed.

"Yes, yes, of course." She pouted a little. "I am sorry, and I'll be sure to pop all of their events into my mobile calendar so I don't miss another." She reached forward, grasping his upper arm with both hands. "I was just popping 'round to see if you had any photos from the day, so you could tell me all about it," she said. "If there's anything I can do to make it up, I'll do it. I… oh!" She brightened, tightening her hands briefly. "I can come to _your_ Sports Day."

His immediate reaction was to think that this was a terrible idea, but he considered her smile, the sincerity and enthusiasm in her tone, and decided to give her the benefit of the doubt and allow her to pay her penance. "All right," he said at last, then watched as she entered that info into her smartphone.

* * *

><p><em>Thurs, 13 June 2013<em>

Scott supposed she never had been a morning person.

He was so busy with getting Sports Day up and running, keeping the children occupied and prepared for the competitions, that he hardly realised it was nearing eleven and Sarah still had not arrived. He scowled, looked at his mobile for evidence of missed calls then double-checked his watch again.

_Where in the bloody hell is she?_

Just then a commotion near the entrance caught his attention, and as if made manifest from his thoughts, he saw it was Sarah who had arrived. In doing so, she had knocked over a rack of cricket equipment just inside. It wasn't the toppled equipment that attracted his attention, however; her attire was totally inappropriate for the day, one of her expensive cocktail dresses of white crocheted material, and mules glittering with gold accents and with heels far too high for the grass. At least the dress was of a decent length.

"Oh, God, Scott, I'm so sorry," she said, attempting to crouch down in order to pull the equipment upright.

"It's fine," he said, holding out his hand in a 'stop' gesture. "I'll get this. It's heavier than it looks."

"Sorry," she said again, after he'd stood up straight with the equipment. "And I'm late to boot. I feel terrible."

He looked her in the eye, knit his brow a bit, because something seemed off, though he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was, aside from the overdone spray tan and the cloud of perfume. "Well, no matter. You're here now. Come on."

As they walked to where he had set up a blanket under the marquee, from the grass to slightly firmer ground, he noticed her gait was no steadier. Surrounded by small boys and their eagle-eyed mothers, however, he was very aware of the fact that he should be courteous to Sarah but not, for example, put his arm around her to steady her.

"Thanks, Scott," she said, smiling slightly, or at least trying; it seemed she must have had a recent Botox injection. She looked down to the blanket. "Oh. All the way down there."

As she rocked from foot to foot, it all came together for him, what that something was that was off. She had been drinking, and she was if not plastered, then at the very least buzzed. But he had no time to deal with her because the children needed his attention more. "If you need something to eat, I've packed plenty of food there in my hamper." He pointed towards a covered wicker basket.

"That'd be super," she said. "Oh. One thing." She pointed towards the basket too. "Is there wine in there?"

He felt his jaw tense in exasperation. "No, there is not. This is a children's sport event, Sarah. Now. I have to make sure the games area is ready to go," he said, indicating where the children were already milling about in preparation. "Be back in a little while."

He should not have doubted that Alan and the other teachers had kept things in adequate order. The children were a bit restless but otherwise already where they needed to be. Scott saw Billy run by, excited as anything for his long jump event, which made him realise he had not yet seen Bridget or Mabel. _Little wonder_, he thought. There were a lot of people present.

Still, he cast his gaze about looking to see if she had made it—even though he doubted very much she would miss it for Billy's sake—and that was when he actually spotted her on a picnic blanket with some of the other mums. He wandered closer. The mums all appeared to be imbibing from an enormous bottle of contraband Pimm's that he greatly suspected had been smuggled in by Bridget. He was amused more than anything; after all, in a Sports-Day-related email that a concerned Mrs Martinez had forwarded to him, Bridget had threatened to bring vodka, no mixers, even though he'd assured the woman that Bridget had only been kidding.

Bridget sat back on her knees, her pale blue sundress spread out around her, but her attention was focused upon a device in her hands, not at what the children were doing. As he drew closer, he could see the corner of her lip quirked up in amusement as she thumb-typed into the iPhone, blonde hair floating around on the breeze; she looked really nice, really happy, even if he was annoyed that she was texting intently into her phone and not watching the children or otherwise supporting Sports Day. Who was she texting? A lover? Why should he care? Why should that make him so irrationally upset to think of?

Just as she started to shift as if in preparation to stand up, he asked coolly, towering over her, "Enjoying supporting the sporting activities?"

She looked up just as she crashed down onto all fours, and just as a shot rang out through the air.

Instinctively he tensed, reached for his hip for a pistol that wasn't there, just as he consciously realised that it had been nothing more than the starter pistol going off to launch the first race. He blinked rapidly as if to regain control of his senses as his eyes scanned the playing field. Just the starter pistol. Everything was fine. He was not, in fact, under fire.

"Everything all right?" he heard Bridget ask him; he looked down to where she still remained on all fours, one brow cocked querulously as she stared at him.

He met her gaze and did not blink. "Absolutely. Just a slight issue I have with… spoons."

He took that opportunity to return to where the sporting events were now underway—as he was expected to be there to judge them—and strode over to where the egg-and-spoon race finish line. His thoughts were in a muddle, though. How had he gotten so distracted that the sound of the starter pistol had caught him completely unawares?

Next was the long jump, and Scott spotted Billy looking at him as if for reassurance. He offered Billy a small smile and a little wink, which seemed to bolster the boy's spirits. He knew Billy was more than capable of winning the event, but could sometimes sabotage himself with a lack of confidence.

Scott walked and watched as Billy prepared, ran, and then did his jump. Scott could tell even before they measured that it was, indeed, one of Billy's best jumps; judging from the cautious grin on Billy's face, he thought Billy thought so, too.

Then the jump was measured, the crowd cheered, and Billy leapt into the air in his joy.

He realised he had come near to where Bridget stood with Mabel—whether accidentally or subconsciously, he didn't know—when he heard Mabel say, "I told you, dammit!"

"What?" asked her mother.

"Dey _do_ have tape measuring in the Kwintoflon."

"Yes," he found himself responding; "it is an increasingly popular athletic category."

Bridget turned to look at him, then, blinking as if to focus, at something behind him. At the same time, Scott caught a whiff of a familiar scent. Sarah's overdone perfume. Talon-tipped fingers grasped his shoulder to steady herself.

Oh God.

"Could I possibly have a drop of that Pimm's?" she asked, her focus on Bridget. A thousand seconds of excruciating silence passed before she spoke again, this time, addressing him: "Pimm's? Dear?"

He could almost see the surprise, the disbelief, the myriad thoughts that meant she realised Sarah was his wife, passing through Bridget's head as her features changed ever so subtly. What must she have thought of Sarah? Of him?

"Bridget," he said quietly, fully aware of how sheepish he sounded, "This is… this is Sarah. Don't worry, I'll do the Pimm's. You go to Billy."

Bridget said nothing in response, just held out her hand to take her daughter's. "Come on, Mabel," she said just as Billy ran towards them, brimming with his delight, his shirt and class sash flapping about. He got to his mother, threw his arms around her and buried his face in the folds of her dress.

Bridget slipped her arm around Billy's shoulder and with that, the three of them wandered off towards where another group Billy's friends were with their mums; his eyes didn't leave her, and he marvelled at the way the wind revealed the shape of her body almost prismatically as her dress swirled around her. Then Sarah reminded him with another desperate shoulder grab that she was standing there and she wanted Pimm's.

"Come on," he said gruffly, taking her by the wrist and leading her towards Bridget's picnic blanket.

Farzia Seth was kind enough to pour for Sarah a small amount of Pimm's into a tiny disposable paper cup, for which he thanked her; asking for the drink made him feel like a desperate old alcoholic, and his excessive gratitude at receiving it only underscored that feeling, despite the fact that the drink was not even for him.

"Here," he said, shoving the drink at Sarah. She clutched at it with an unholy glee; her reaction disgusted him. Without another word, he walked away.

To take his mind off of the disaster that inviting his ex-wife to Sports Day had turned out to be, he went over to where the last event of the five was winding down and preparations were underway for handing out the prizes. Everything was running as smoothly as a well-oiled engine, thanks in part to the organisational skills of Mrs Martinez. There were times when he was glad she was so bloody bossy.

He noticed that Sarah was once again at Bridget's picnic blanket, speaking with Bridget—as he did so, realised he had subconsciously sought out Bridget, scanning the crowd for her blue dress—and he ceased movement, watching their interaction. It certainly was fascinating to see them side by side; Sarah, with the heels, inappropriate cocktail dress, a helmet of perfectly coiffed hair, the fake tan, the Botoxed face, looking every inch artificial and plastic… and then there was Bridget in her ballet flats, comfy dress, ivory skin, expressive eyes, generous and ever-ready smile, hair whipping about in the wind…

The two women could not be more different; he realised, like a bolt from the blue, that only one of them was making his heart race; only one of them he could not take his eyes off. And that the one who held his rapt attention in this way was not the mother of his children.

At this startling epiphany, his mouth went dry, and he forced himself to look away, to turn away and to engage with the group preparing the prizes. It would not do at all to carry on thinking about this in the middle of a school function.

But he couldn't stop, not now that he'd started. Couldn't help but try to analyse his own mind, to attempt to pinpoint when he'd first started thinking of Bridget as more than Billy's mum, as more than not-quite-a-Mumserati. To gauge the extent of what he felt towards her, or felt for her. Casting his thoughts back over the months, it occurred to him he'd been thinking of her a lot, far more than he had any other mum, and that he had considered her a beautiful woman long before he'd acknowledged it openly to himself.

He dared to glance over again—not wishing to be so obvious in his newly realised attraction—just in time to see her raise her hands up, twist her hair around, then work a hair stick through it to keep it up and out of her eyes. The result gave the impression of a very expensive, on-purpose-messy coif. He chuckled, then looked away. _So much for all of that time at the hairdresser's,_ he thought wryly.

Bridget was also alone, he thought belated, which made him wonder where Sarah had gone. Maybe she'd gone to the clubhouse to sit down in a proper chair. Whatever the case, he'd deal with her later. He couldn't very well abandon his duty to the children now.

He helped to hand out the prizes, but he did so on autopilot. He hardly recalled a moment of the latter part of the day, not when he was so distracted. He knew that the first order of business was to end it cleanly and unambiguously with Sarah. He thought he needed her to make the boys happy, but it was equally clear in hindsight that they were happy enough just to have him home, and that while they loved their mother, they didn't particularly like her. And while he would always feel a certain amount of affection for the mother of his children, he realised he didn't like her much, either.

Rather than pace the grounds of the event trying to look for Sarah, he pulled out his mobile and punched in her number. After an excessive number of rings, Sarah picked the phone up.

"Where are you?" he barked.

"In a taxi. I thought it was over."

He ran a hand over his face in exasperation. "It is over," he said, fully aware of the double meaning of his words, even if she wasn't. "But you might have said goodbye. Listen, I need to see you tonight. Is it all right if I drop by?"

"Oh, yes, of course," she said in an almost playful voice.

"I need to talk to you," he said, correcting the obvious misapprehension. "How about after dinner? And dammit, try to be sober."


	4. Chapter 4

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4<strong>

_Thurs, 13 June 2013, con't._

Only two fingers high. That was the absolute limit, although he wanted at least double that. After all, he had to function in school the next day.

Scott held up the tumbler and looked at the drink, which he needed desperately after the conversation he'd just had with Sarah. _That could have gone better_, he mused, before knocking it back.

Sarah must have sensed that something serious was going on, because when he arrived at her house at half eight, she appeared to be as clear-eyed as he'd ever seen her, perfectly made up and dressed in a modest cotton shift. "Good evening, Scott," she said, stepping aside to allow him in. As he did, he noticed she'd refreshed the perfume too. Involuntarily, he coughed.

"Evening," he said, practically under his breath; he looked around the house, draped in designer wallpaper and evidently brand new furniture, so much colder and so very changed from when they'd lived there together as a married couple. He then turned back to her. "Listen, I'm going to get straight to it, because I've got work in the morning."

"All right," she said cautiously.

He decided to start on a positive note. "I appreciate that you came to Sports Day today. I know you're not a big fan of sport."

She shifted her weight onto one foot, folded her arms across her chest. "But?"

"To be so obviously drunk at a children's sports day is unacceptable, Sarah. That you thought it would be all right is incomprehensible to me."

"I just had a little bit to take the edge of boredom off, Scott. Jesus."

"You could barely stand upright on your own," he said. "You walk up to strangers begging for Pimm's. It's humiliating."

"Sorry to have embarrassed you," she spat.

"You embarrassed me, yes, but you embarrassed yourself. The one and only time you come to show support for me and my job, and you make a complete hash of it. And that you don't feel the need to apologise, don't think you did anything wrong… I'm sorry, but that cuts it for me. We are through for good."

Whatever she was expecting that night, the immediate reaction—mouth dropping open, eyes widening—told him that this wasn't it. "You're serious?" she said in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"I'm not kidding," he said. "You must have noticed that we aren't any more compatible than we were when we split up."

"I've been trying," she said.

"Showing up plastered to a school event does not qualify as 'trying'."

"It wasn't me, anyway, who spent all that time abroad and away from me," Sarah said, changing tack. "Here you were in London and you were almost as distant as if you were still in the Middle East."

Her attempt to rehash an old guilt-trip was beyond affecting him now. "And you've managed to be distant while in the same room," he said, then amended, "the same bed."

She narrowed her eyes, fists landing firmly on her hips. "Ohhh," she said icily. "I know what this is really about. You're cutting me loose so you can go after that woman you couldn't stop leering at today."

"This has nothing to do with anyone else but you and me," he said, realising instantly that it sounded like he was deflecting the subject.

"You are such a terrible liar, Scott," she said. "I suppose that's one of the things I've always liked about you the most."

"I don't love you," he said bluntly. "Or at least, I'm not in love with you. And no amount of love for our sons is going to make our getting back together a good idea."

She waved her hand. "I never said it was," she said, than instantly seemed to regret it, adding clumsily, "though it was still worth trying."

"What did you say?" he demanded. "What did you mean by that?"

"Nothing," she said.

He gritted his teeth as they stared at one another in silence. "This was never about the boys, was it?" he fumed, the truth dawning on him in that instant. "It was more about… your fucking Botox and your fucking designer macramé dresses." He took in a deep breath. "Well thank you, Sarah, for being a fucking terrible liar, too. I should have guessed you hadn't changed all that much. Foolish me for thinking you had." He turned to leave.

"Scott, wait."

"Why?" he asked wearily. "What's the point?" He looked at her; she looked genuinely upset.

"I don't want you to leave angry at me."

"I'm not angry at you," he said wearily. "I'm angry at myself for falling for a load of bullshit again." He turned back to the door, opened it, said good night, and then left.

Now he was home, scotch coursing through his system, he had time to think about it, pull it apart, moment by moment. And he kept coming back to a very salient point:

If Sarah had noticed his attraction for Bridget in a single afternoon, surely others had noticed, too, like Valerie and her knowing winks. Even Farzia Seth had given him curious looks during the Pimm's incident. Had she guessed, too? Was he truly the last to know?

He chuckled. _Well, perhaps except for Bridget Darcy, herself._

* * *

><p><em>Mon, 17 June 2013<em>

For Father's Day the following Sunday, he fortunately did not have to face Sarah; he only needed to go to the boys' school, get them then take them to lunch. They presented him with wonderful, heartfelt homemade gifts of wood— from Fred, a wooden 'nose' on which to store his reading specs, and a wooden music stand from Matt—which meant more to him than any store-bought gift. The lunch itself was the simplest of pub fare, but he hardly cared; it's what he wanted, and the boys seemed to love it too.

Long after he took them back to their school, the pleasant feeling remained with him. In fact, he was still feeling quite happy well into the morning the next school day.

Until he ran into Alan in the teachers' break room. The man was sitting at a table with a cup of coffee and a stack of papers, and looked like he had just received the worst news of his life.

"Alan?" he asked in a quiet voice, coming up to the table. "Is everything okay?"

Alan shook his head. "Best read for yourself," he said, then reached down to his stack, which Scott realised were student essays, then plucked the one from the top and handed it to Scott.

It was written by Billy Darcy.

The topic of the essay was Father's Day the day before; it was the sort of topic that one usually did not give a second thought for any given group of children, and was a fairly typical assignment for children of Billy's age.

Billy had not had had a typical childhood, though.

_We went to see Grandpa Darcy like we do every year. Grandpa Jones is in Heaven with Daddy. Me and Mabel sent the cards we made in class to Daddy in Heaven on Wednesday, just so he would get them by today. I hope he liked them. I hope he got them in time. If not, major fail! _

_We had Daddy's favourite dinner and Granny Darcy told us about what Daddy was like when he was my age. Then Mummy spent a long time in the loo then she was giving Granny Darcy and Grandpa Darcy long hugs goodbye. Then we came home and we looked at pictures of Daddy again. We always look the longest at the one where me and Daddy have the same outfit on, and she always says the same thing, that we're like twins. Then Mummy gave us our baths and then she told us Daddy's bedtime story like she does every night._

Scott felt incredibly guilty reading the essay, even though it was meant to be shared. He cleared his throat and handed Alan the paper back. "I see what you mean," he said in a quiet, rough voice.

"I feel terrible," said Alan glumly. "I'm so used to giving the assignment that I didn't really think about how insensitive it is to Billy."

"I wouldn't worry too much," said Scott. "He hardly seems traumatised. Sounds like he even had a nice day."

"Still…" he said morosely.

"If anyone's affected by Father's Day, it's probably Bridget," Scott said. From Alan's look of slight curiosity, he realised belatedly he'd used her given name. He glossed over it and added, "That seems clear from the essay."

"Yes, true," said Alan. "How difficult that must have been to walk them to the post box to mail letters to Heaven." He sighed. "Can you imagine a love so strong that five years after his death, it's still so very much alive?"

Scott had no answer for this, so instead pardoned himself to get his coffee and head back out again.

He thought all day about the essay, about Alan's question, and realised he could not in fact imagine such a love. And when he got home, he wondered about depths of her attachment to Mark Darcy still. Was she open to wanting another man in her life, beyond more than just a physical thing? Would she ever be?

He stopped in mid-stir of the sauté he was preparing on the hob, surprised by his own thoughts. He would only be thinking such things, he realised, if he was interested in them himself. He wasn't just attracted to her, didn't just desire her physically. He was falling for her.

* * *

><p><em>Fri, 21 June 2013<em>

It was the first day of summer, and Scott could sense the boys' restlessness, their lack of focus on their schoolwork a symptom of their anticipation of the start of their weekend to be out in the sun playing. As soon as the final bell went off, a good portion of them raced to the playing field to squeeze in a short, informal match before the school run commenced.

As the sport teacher, he took it upon himself to keep an eye on them from his perch near the front gate; his own thoughts focused on the logistics of getting to his boys' school to pick them up for what he hoped would be a quiet dinner with Sarah for Scott's birthday before a weekend out at the family estate, Capthorpe House.

Seeing Billy running around with the ball caused Scott to immediately think of Billy's mother (not that she was far from his thoughts after his recent revelation); instinctively he turned to see if she'd shown up yet. To his great confusion, he saw Mabel accompanied by whom he guessed likely to be Bridget, though for some strange reason (given it was the summer solstice), she had a scarf wrapped around her head, obscuring her mouth. He drew closer as she called for Billy, only it came out sounding a lot more like "Illy."

"Everything OK?" he asked, startling her; she turned to face him. "A muffler? Are you cold? Doesn't feel very cold to me." He rubbed his hands together as if to warm them.

"Bbdentist."

"I'm sorry?" he asked.

She pulled aside the scarf to reveal that her face looked a bit slack and swollen. "Bbdentist," she repeated, then covered her mouth again.

He smiled a little; a dentist's visit could explain it, though there was no supporting evidence like cotton wool, and why the scarf if only a simple dental problem? It reminded him a lot more of the instance where Sarah been given far too much Botox (which she never ceased complaining about), causing a reaction that made her face swell and lose the ability to speak properly for a day. Foolish of Bridget, though, to think she needed it. Maybe this bad reaction would warn her off for good.

"Mummy'th mouth'th all funny," offered Mabel.

"Poor Mummy," Scott said sympathetically. He then noticed Mabel's toes pointing outward and he crouched down to her. "What's going on with your shoes? Have you got them on the wrong feet?" Without further prompting, he began to help her swap her shoes.

"Billy won't come," Mabel said in a perfect imitation of her mum's gruffly irritated voice; he glanced up at the girl's face as he finished with her shoes to see that oh-so-serious expression there.

"Really?" he asked, standing again. Then he turned and shouted briskly, "Billy!" Billy's head popped up and he looked straight to where they were; Scott then jerked his head to the side to indicate Billy needed to come over immediately, and promptly Billy did just that. Scott advised, "Your mum was waiting for you. You knew that. Next time your mum is waiting for you, you come straight away. Got it?"

"Yes, Mr Wallaker," said Billy.

Scott looked at Bridget again. "Are you OK?" he asked; as he did so, he realised he asked this of her quite a lot… and she always vehemently denied she needed help, even when it was obvious she did.

This time, though, he could only see tears in her eyes, the expression of despair, of being lost….

Decisively, Scott turned back to the children. "Billy. Mabel," he said with calm authority. "Your mum's been to the dentist and she's feeling poorly. Now. I want you to be a little lady and a little gentleman and be nice to her."

"Yes Mr Wallaker," they said in unison, reaching to take one hand apiece of hers.

"Very good." He raised his gaze to meet hers. "And, Mrs Darcy?"

She asked, "Yes, Mr Wallaker?"

"I wouldn't do that again if I were you," he said gently. "You looked all right in the first place."

She didn't say a word, only looked at him, before the children pulled her away from the gate and she then led them towards where her car probably was.

He stood there a moment more, pondering her reaction to his words—no denials, so he must have been right that it was Botox—before thrusting his hands into the pockets of his track bottoms, turning and walking away, lost deep in his thoughts.

He wondered what had spurred her to try Botox. Had it been something suggested by her lover? Had this unknown man said or done something to spark unnecessary insecurity? He felt irrationally angry… then realised it was perhaps not so irrational, after all. He thought it was unforgiveable for anyone to make their partner feel less than what they were.

* * *

><p><em>Sat, 22 June 2013<em>

"Earth to Scott. Come in, Scott."

Scott blinked from his reverie, blinked at the shining June sun, and looked to his brother, who sat across the table from himself, relaxing in a post-meal haze on the terrace. Sean was almost a carbon copy of Scott, or would be if Scott had been inclined to slightly longer hair, slightly less committed to physical fitness, and about five years younger.

"Sorry," he said, reaching for the glass of wine. Instinctively Scott looked for where his sons had gone, and found them quickly. They were still kicking a football around with their cousins on the sprawling green lawn of the family home, where they spent the occasional weekend in the summer to get the family together.

"What's on your mind?" asked Sean, drinking from his own wineglass.

"Nothing," he said automatically, which was a lie, and he suspected Sean knew it; now that he'd had the realisation that he might he more than just attracted to Bridget the week before, he could think of little else. "Sorry that Miranda couldn't make it," he said, referencing his absent step-niece, hoping to deflect attention from himself.

"She's sorry too, but had to work," Sean said, who then grinned. "Scott, your tactics are transparent. What's really on your mind? 'Nothing' wouldn't make you quite that oblivious."

He sighed, ran his hand over his hair. "Things have finally sputtered and died with Sarah."

"Sorry," said Sean.

"Don't be sorry," he said. "It was foolish to even try. She hasn't really changed."

"Then if I'm to be honest? Thank God." Sean sat back in his chair. "Your boys are wonderful, but Sarah… she's a real piece of work."

Scott had always suspected his brother had never liked Sarah, and frankly couldn't blame him.

"So you're not worked up over ending it with Sarah," Sean continued. "What's all the deep thought about? Did you want a birthday cake, after all, despite your protestations?"

He looked down to the remnants of his dinner; he was torn about confiding anything even to his brother and closest confidant but also wished to unburden himself of his thoughts. Finally he decided on a neutral but not inaccurate, "Just some things I'm dealing with at the school."

Sean didn't reply, so Scott looked up at him. "School," Sean said.

"Yes."

"That's what I thought you said."

"It is."

A longer pause. "Sorry, just wondering how the school at which you work has anything to do with Sarah."

"Dad! Dad!"

A most timely interruption as his sons as well as Sean's—Jeff and George, of roughly the same ages as his own boys, and Arthur, the youngest at seven; all five looked enough alike to pass as brothers—came running up to where they sat on the garden terrace demanding ice lollies, so they all went inside to fetch some from the freezer. Sean's wife Cassandra was nowhere to be found; he suspected she was painting watercolours down by the lake. Scott liked his sister-in-law immensely, had always admired her tenacity to continue on with painting; she showed little promise for mastering the art in all the years he'd known her, but she took great pleasure in doing it nonetheless.

"Looks like we've got some purple and orange," said Scott. "Oh, and a few blue and red."

Shouts went up all around for various colours, and once they were all served with their lollies of choice, the boys were herded back out on to the terrace to eat them. "I'd like a purple, if there are any left," said Sean with a smirk.

"You're in luck." He pulled a purple one for Sean and a red one for himself.

They went back outside, too, and they enjoyed their frozen treats in the shade on the terrace; Scott's thoughts drifted to Billy, to how much a boy who had no one with whom to play footie (aside from his Uncle Daniel) would have loved playing with his own sons and nephews. Billy would have evened things up, for a little three-a-side…

"There you go, off in your own world again."

Scott chuckled. "Was just thinking about Billy."

"Billy? Who's that?"

"Bridget's boy."

"And who's Bridget?"

_Hell_, he thought. There would be no getting around telling Sean now.

"Bridget is…" Scott began, but before he could finish, Sean ventured:

"The thing you're dealing with at school?"

Utterly caught out, Scott put his hand to his face to hide it. Sean began to laugh.

"You've got a crush on a mum from school," Sean said.

"It is _not_ a crush," Scott boomed; Sean laughed again.

"'The lady doth—'"

"I am still fully capable, you know," interrupted Scott gruffly, "of throwing you into the lake."

Sean held his hands up as if in surrender. "Fine, fine," he said. "Truce. But this mum, this lady, is obviously taking up a lot of your mental space."

"It's not a crush," said Scott, meeting his brother's gaze, speaking in a far more gentle voice. "No, I'm afraid it goes well beyond that."

"So what's the problem?" asked Sean. "Is she married? Thirty and far too young for you? What?"

"She's not too young, and not married."

"Well, great then!"

"She's widowed," Scott said.

"Oh," Sean said, turning glum.

"Not recently," Scott said. "But… she's only just apparently getting over it." At the look of confusion on his brother's face, Scott added, "You probably remember his death. I didn't, because I wasn't here. But apparently it was all over the news. Mark Darcy."

Sean's confusion persisted until the connection was made. "Oh, yes, right. The human rights barrister who—oh, _Jesus_, I remember that." He paused as if to make the necessary mental connections. "She used to be on the telly, I recall. Cassandra used to love watching Sit Up Britain, would drag me in to watch. She was great… I remember her being so serious and witty, and yet charming and (forgive me) cute, doing the show even with that huge pregnant belly… Cassandra was gutted when she left for good after the tragedy. But wow." He whistled low in his throat. "_That's_ your Bridget?"

"She isn't my anything, Sean," he said.

"And what does she think about you?" The way Sean asked it, he felt like they were schoolboys again.

"Honestly, I haven't the faintest," Scott said. "I don't get the impression she notices me, except to spar with me." He took in a deep breath. "Anyway, Mr Darcy's shoes would be big ones to fill, so there's little sense in even considering it."

Sean reached over and poked his brother in the upper arm. "She probably notices more than you think," he said. "If you say she's only just getting over it, then maybe it's the perfect time to consider it. To _more_ than consider it, even."

"I don't know," he said, exhaling roughly. "I think she's already seeing someone anyway." In a quiet voice he briefly related the story of her Boots purchase.

"Pfft," said Sean dismissively, waving his hand. "Maybe that's just sex. Getting back into things. I mean, look at me after Diane and I split up. It took me a little while to get to a point where I would even think about sticking a toe into dating, even though I was still pretty young. Then I got my feet wet again, in a manner of speaking, with a few women. I knew it would never go anywhere with them, it was all just physical, and I was happy that way… and then I met Cassandra and knew I wanted more. And here we are."

Scott looked away, over to the boys, who were now scaling up one of the more majestic tree's lower limbs; his mind flashed to that scene in Primrose Park, that flash of lacy thong…. "I just don't know," he said.

"At least don't dismiss it outright. You never know. Maybe she'll show a hint of being receptive. Or maybe you'll just get a blaringly obvious sign. Don't let that moment slip away." Sean grinned. "Don't I sound like a regular agony aunt?"

Scott couldn't help but chuckle. "Maybe you should try dipping a toe in, too. I mean, you've always been far more fit than I have. That hasn't changed."

"I don't even know how to meet women anymore, or if they'd be interested. And the ones at the school… well, I've nicknamed them the Mumserati for a reason."

"Except for Bridget."

"Well… at first I lumped her in with them, but then I found out differently." He smiled at the mental image that was forming: "I haven't disabused anyone at the school of the notion that I'm still married. I'm afraid some of those mums would react like sharks to blood in the water… wouldn't matter they were, for the most part, already married."

Sean poked his brother again. "See? You've still got it."

He supposed Sean had a point, though the alternatives looked more like Alan, who was decidedly not fit. The thought of the mums fawning over Alan Pitlochry-Howard crossed his mind, amusing him, then he shared this thought with his brother. They both chuckled like mischievous children.

"What are you two so smiley about?" It was Cassandra, toting her painting kit, easel, and stretched paper that bore what he supposed was a landscape of the lake and its surroundings. She had her dark hair tied back with a kerchief, and had managed to get blue paint on her cheek.

"Nothing at all, love. Just having a bit of a laugh," said Sean. He glanced to the painting. "Ooh. That's lovely."

"You don't have to lie," she said playfully, then her gaze fixed on Scott, and she smiled. "I love that you're back, Scott," she said, patting her brother-in-law's shoulder. "Keeps him from getting into trouble elsewhere." She winked, dark eyes twinkling. "I'm going inside—it's getting cooler and I'm losing the light. I've told the boys they need to get their football and come in soon, too, but they hardly paid me mind."

"Right, that's our cue." Sean pushed back from the table. "I'll clear off the table and you can use the military authority you've cultivated to get those boys to come inside."

"Right," echoed Scott.

He had the five boys practically marching in within minutes, eliciting a comment from his brother about how much the school must have loved him. With the time of year that it was, sunset was quite close to bedtime, especially for Arthur, so he instructed they all begin to wash up and prepare for bed—

He couldn't help himself; as he watched them, he envisioned Billy amongst the boys as they vied for a spot at the sink. He could picture Bridget in this place with him as easily as he could picture Billy playing football with the boys. He could imagine Mabel skipping around and shouting down the cavernous hallways simply to hear her own voice reverberate.

When his brother cleared his throat, interrupting Scott from his thoughts once more, Sean didn't ask what was on his mind. Scott suspected he had already guessed correctly, given Sean's smirk.

* * *

><p><em>Mon, 24 June 2013<em>

The buzz around the school for the upcoming summer concert had been building for at least a month now. The children talked about practising and their excitement about performing, though from a teacher's perspective, Scott also knew there were rumours of problems with the venue: that the indoor sports centre in which the concert was ordinarily held might not actually be available, due to an error in scheduling the floor's resurfacing, one that could not be rescheduled to accommodate.

During the sports class that day, Scott noticed Billy looking especially glum; his self-confidence had been quite bolstered by the Sports Day win, and to see him looking down was cause for concern. Near the end of the class, Scott was able to ask Billy what was troubling him.

"I've been practising with the bassoon so much, and now the concert's gonna be cancelled and I won't even get to play," Billy said, his shoulders slouching further. "Epic fail."

"Cancelled?" Scott asked.

Billy nodded.

"That seems…" Scott trailed off. Surely they could use the outdoor sport field or—

He was then struck with an idea so perfect that he started to smile. Capthorpe House. The large back garden could easily be used for a musical venue for the children as easily as for the concerts that had been held there in the past, using the stone terrace as the stage. The audience could easily fan out around it on the lawn, the lake to their back. The hill from the terrace down to the lake wasn't so steep that anyone would fall backwards. It wouldn't take much work at all, and…

"Mr Wallaker?" Billy asked.

"I'll see what I can do, Billster," Scott finished at last. "Don't you worry about it."

Billy smiled and nodded.

The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea. They probably were considering cancelling the concert because they couldn't secure another venue on such short notice, at least not without incurring great cost, and the outdoor sport field had no suitable stage. He could provide the school exactly what it needed at no cost to them, and he needed to offer it as soon as possible.

Immediately he headed up to Headmaster Miller's office.

He admitted to himself, even as he pled his case to his friend the headmaster, that he had an ulterior motive. He knew exactly how impressive and beautiful those grounds were. If he were able to get Bridget to see there was more to him than the jerk he had been to her, maybe at last he would get his chance to… well, exactly what, he didn't know. Maybe he would be inspired to ask her out for dinner with more than a snowball's chance in hell of being accepted.

"It sounds too good to be true," said Martin with a grin. "I'd fully support it, and I'll propose it to the Concert Committee, though I can't see they would or could refuse unless they wanted a gaggle of disappointed boys on their hands."

With that he went down to the school yard for the end-of-day school pickups; he saw Billy, who was with group of his friends playing with the football as he liked to do, and noticed that he looked happy and carefree once more, clearly reassured by Scott's words. It pleased him greatly to think the boy trusted him so much.

…

With fewer than two weeks to go until the Summer Concert, he knew there was a lot to do, arranging to get the non-instrument-related performance equipment (like the music stands and the folding chairs) out of storage for the night. He also learned he'd have to coordinate with Mrs Martinez, who was the chair of the Concert Committee. Given her haughty attitude and her obvious distrust of his capabilities as evidenced in their past interactions, he dreaded it; to his surprise, though, she welcomed his involvement, took his suggestions seriously, and responded immediately to his emails to her.

He was drawn to be more actively involved in music at the school, in general; he did not wish to step on Alan's toes—he was, after all, in charge of what there was of a music curriculum at the school, insofar as arranging the boys' musical tutors—but when Alan said he could use help with coordinating that night, Scott volunteered without hesitation. "I'll even play piano if you'd like."

"Oh bother," said Alan, turning pale white. "I'd forgotten about the piano."

Scott waved his hand. "Already one there. I'll just get it out onto the terrace. Straight shot from the sitting room through the French windows. Not to worry."

"Wonderful," said Alan. After a beat, he added, "I didn't even know you could play."

"It's just a hobby," Scott said, "but I enjoy it. It relaxes me."

Alan smiled. "Sport, chess, music… I'm starting to think there isn't anything you aren't good at."

"You flatter me," he said.

He noticed, too, over those next few days that Bridget no longer wore the scarf to hide her face, which had restored back to its natural attractiveness. He hoped she would take his advice and steer clear in future of Botox.

* * *

><p><em>Thurs, 4 July 2013<em>

The night of the summer concert arrived at last. He'd spent the whole of the weekend making sure the piano was properly tuned, arranging ushering help for the evening, and verifying that the grounds were ready—not that they were ever far from being immaculately groomed, but with so many little boys running around, it was best to make sure—and to mark the footpath with a sign to direct the parents where exactly to go once they arrived by car and parked.

As show time approached, the lawn filled with a patchwork quilt of rugs and picnic blankets for the show; however, he had yet to see the Darcys arrive. Even with her penchant for tardiness, he was beginning to worry a bit, which didn't help his nerves; he had decided that, if the signs were right, there was no reason not to drop hints about his interest, just as his brother had suggested. Fortunately, she appeared just then with Billy, by where the footpath emptied onto the lawn. No Mabel; she must have had a sitter.

She looked completely overburdened, and by more than just the baskets, rug and Billy's bassoon case; Scott saw her send Billy off to be with his friends, and he decided to go and see if he could give her a hand. As he watched her scan the crowd of parents, he had never seen her look quite so lost; he realised then how cruel this evening was to her, with parents paired up together cosily. Maybe he could see if there was someone with whom she had already planned to sit… maybe offer to sit her with his things if she had not.

Despite these sombre thoughts, he could not help noticing that her dress—of light cotton or the like—was not impervious to the sun that shone behind her; the outline of her body was perfectly visible, and perfectly lovely. He thought of his resolution, of his brother's words; this seemed like a sign to him. He drew nearer to her, to where she still looked out over the crowd, and once at her side, he asked teasingly, "Did you bring the kitchen table?"

She turned, seeing him at last as he turned back to the house, idly checking the cufflinks at his wrists. "Want a hand with all that?"

"No, no, I'm fine," she said, just as a plastic box of egg sandwiches disgorged itself onto the lawn. She looked utterly defeated.

"Leave it," he said. "Give me the bassoon. I'll get someone to bring the rest down. Got anyone to sit with?"

The defeat turned to defiance. "Please don't speak to me like I'm one of your schoolboys," she said. "I'm not Bridget No-Mates Darcy and I'm not helpless and I can carry a picnic basket and just because you've got everything under control, and all lakes and orchestras, it doesn't mean—"

A large crash from the terrace interrupted her; music stands had gone over, and a cello was now in the process of being chased down the incline by a gaggle of boys. "Totally under control," he mused, just as a double bass and then a tuba fell over next, which took out even more stands. "Better go. Give me that." Before she could protest he took the bassoon, then started away towards the house and terrace. "Oh, and by the way," he called back, "your dress."

"Yes?" she said.

"Slightly see-through with the sun behind it," he said with a smirk, not looking back. "Good effect."

He could only hope the arrow's aim was true, such as it was. There really was no way she could have mistaken the compliment to her figure.

Once to the house, Scott sent one of the hired ushers towards where she still stood immobile, basket on the ground, and once the man was on his way he delivered Billy's instrument to where the children were beginning to assemble, then he headed up to the stage to get the stands and instruments righted once more.

With that, he returned to the room where the children were, ensured all were present and accounted for. and had their instruments (aside from the larger ones that were already out there). He then organised them to file out onto the stage efficiently and properly. With a signal from Mrs Martinez, they were off; as she spoke words of kind introduction about himself, the boys marched out the French windows and onto the stage to take their seats (and their instruments).

And then she waved him on. He strode out, raising his hand, which commanded instant (and surprising) silence. He felt unaccountably nervous, scanning the crowd to see where Bridget had alighted, a small smile fixed to his features. "Thank you," he said. "I must say I agree with every word. And now… the reason you're here. I give you—Your. Sensational. Sons."

He then raised a baton he hadn't recalled taking up, and the boys began their big band/swing rendition; slightly out of tune, but strong and surprisingly confident. He was very proud of them.

One by one they performed their numbers, each one a success given their age; he wasn't sure what Alan had been thinking, assigning "The Age of Aquarius" to six-year-olds on recorders, but the parents seemed to enjoy it, and frankly, he did too.

Then, near the end, it came time for Billy to perform his chosen piece, "I'd Do Anything" from _Oliver!_; Billy, who had always seemed nervous enough in front of his class and the teachers playing a bassoon that seemed almost bigger than he was, now conjured up images of a tiny, frightened bird—albeit one putting on a very stoic front—as he walked with his music and instrument to the piano.

Scott strode to the take the seat at the piano, but first paused to whisper to Billy, "Ignore the people out there and pretend this is only for your mum. She'll love the song you picked for her, no matter what."

Billy smiled and nodded slightly, bringing the double reeds to his lips.

Scott then began the introduction to the song, then looked and nodded to Billy to begin, who was waiting for the cue.

Billy wasn't the strongest performer of his year, but he played and continued playing with a tenacity and a determination that was admirable; Scott took his cues from Billy, and made up for his missteps and fumbles without missing a beat.

When he finished, wild applause exploded—for they all knew of Billy's challenges—and Scott leaned to whisper to the boy, glancing to Bridget, "There she is, right there. Look how proud she is of you."

Billy hadn't looked so pleased and happy since his long jump.

"Now take a little bow," continued Scott sotto voce, "and then make way for Eros and Atticus."

Billy did just that, and then the final number began; Billy sat back in his chair but seemed to be vibrating in place. The moment the concert was over, Billy dashed from the terrace, still with an indelible grin on his face, over to his mother for a tight hug.

He had other children to herd, however, and did not quite see what happened next, until he looked back to the crowd to see it had thinned out greatly; the shores of the lake had been the obvious destination. A group of boys were running around, playing, chasing one another; Billy was among them. Then he spotted Bridget, on her own, sitting alone on her rug before getting to her feet, then heading back towards the hedge near where the footpath met the lawn. He drew his brows together, sensing instantly that something was amiss.

"I'll… be right back," he murmured to no one in particular as he dropped down from the terrace, then went to follow her.

Between two bushes he found her, illuminated by moonlight, taking a long draw off of a soda that she had clearly drawn from one of her picnic bags that had managed to get left behind. He sized her up within moments: she looked sad, afraid, lost. Again. Like most of the parents' events, as with most of her responsibilities and worries, she had to go it alone, and without even the benefit of the comfort of a glass of wine on an evening such as this.

"You can't even get plastered, can you?" It was more of a statement than a question. He looked around to see if anyone else was nearby. "You all right?"

"Yes!" The word erupted from her mouth, even as she wiped obvious tears away from under her eyes. "Why do you keep _bursting_ up on me? Why do you keep asking me if I'm all right?"

He met her gaze. "I know when a woman is foundering and pretending not to be," he said, then stepped closer. He watched her draw in a deep breath then exhale. The moonlight made her hair glow, and with the scent of the night-blooming jasmine and the roses, it was as if he were mesmerised; he stepped closer still, saw himself raising his hand to run his fingers, his palm, over her silky hair. "There aren't any nits in there, are there?" he joked softly.

She lifted her chin. His hand moved down to her shoulder, and with another step he was practically against her, his cheek to hers, pressing his lips to her skin, soft and lovely just as he had imagined, then to her lips; sparks ignited as—

"What are you _doing_?" she burst out, stepping back; he was so shocked by the ensuing rant—accusing him preying on her because he thought she was desperate, knew she was single; reminding him that he was married, filling him for the first time with regret that he had not made it widely known he was not—that it barely registered at first that she did not feel the same way, that she was rejecting him quite vociferously. But then it did register; he felt crushed.

And then, to make a bad situation worse, a child's voice shouted, "Billy! Your mummy's kissing Mr Wallaker!"

Scott's eyes adjusted and he saw three boys come out of the bushes, one of which was Billy, and he looked really confused. "Ah, Billy!" Scott said. "Your mummy's just, er, hurt herself and—" Even as he said it, he thought, _Talk about foundering…_

"Did she hurt her mouth?" Billy asked innocently, which elicited giggles from Jeremiah.

"Ah! Mr Wallaker! I was looking for you!" Worse still: Mrs Martinez and her brisk, bright tone. "I was wondering if we should say a few words to the parents, to— Bridget! What are you doing here?"

"Looking for some oatmeal cookies," Bridget retorted with equal brightness; he had to give her credit for recovering her equilibrium.

"In the bushes? How odd."

The mention of the biscuits distracted the boys and they dove down onto the bag near her feet, clamouring for them; Bridget bent down, too, to help them, he supposed. Mrs Martinez carried on as if they weren't there, trying to get him back on stage again and plying him with flattery.

"Not sure a speech is quite the thing right now. Maybe just go down there and case it out? Would you mind, Mrs Martinez?"

Bridget stood up again as Mrs Martinez said in a distinctly cooler tone, shooting her a look that Scott could not quite define, "No, of course." At the same time, little Atticus began wailing at top volume about wanting to see his therapist.

Within a few seconds, they were gone, leaving him alone with Bridget again. It was time to attempt to exit gracefully. "Right," he said. "You've made yourself very clear. I apologise. I will go back, to not make a speech."

It was all he had intended to say, at least until he'd taken a few steps away. He had misjudged her and her life at first; he felt compelled to make it clear that she had done the same.

So he turned to her once more. "But just for the record," he said, "other people's lives are not always as perfect as they appear, once you crack the shell."

With that he strode off, not even looking back, as much as he wanted to; he had duties to perform to the get the evening to a close, and there was, after all, school the following day.

He hoped that she would call out to him, but in this, too, he would be disappointed.


	5. Chapter 5

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

_Sat, 13 July 2013_

It was both a blessing and a curse that the Summer Concert heralded the end of the school term, because it meant Scott would not regularly see Bridget for nearly two months. The time that passed would be more than enough, he hoped, to lessen the embarrassment he felt at so misreading the situation, and therefore be able to look her in the eye again. It would give him time to analyse how it was possible he had so misread it. He had been so sure that she had been aware of his feelings—even if she couldn't know the depths of them—but thinking back on it, what had he seen from her that had made him so sure?

He could not now think of a single thing that would have encouraged him.

Or… a possibility he didn't like to consider: what if she was not unaware, but just did not reciprocate, or was simply not ready for or willing to be in another relationship? After all, her bonds with her husband had been so much stronger than most. She may have felt that she'd had her once-in-a-lifetime turn; how unfortunate that would be, as attractive, as funny, and as young as she was.

He wondered, but wouldn't have to wonder for long. On the second Saturday following the Summer Concert, he would get a definitive answer, and it was one he hadn't even considered.

The day was just an ordinary Sunday—if a little warm—and he was taking his ordinary path on a run through Hampstead Heath; he was pacing himself well when he saw something that made him slow down to try to comprehend exactly what it was he was seeing.

Because from his point of view, it looked like he was watching a marriage proposal in progress—and the woman standing there, with a man bent on one knee before her, was Bridget Darcy. A man. A very young man—that was only an impression; his back was to Scott—who then stood up and, after a moment, this young man and Bridget embraced.

When she opened her eyes, she was looking directly at him, or so it seemed. At this reminder that he was intruding on a very private moment, he turned on his heel and walked away, not looking back, and continued walking until he arrived home.

There was nothing more to do for it, he told himself, than to put his feelings aside. He had done so in the past to get through difficult situations in combat, but something told him it would not be so easy to do this time. It was a necessity; otherwise, the new school term would be unbearable.

* * *

><p><em>August 2013<em>

The month and a half of summer break went by quickly, helped in part by his sons, his brother and his brother's family, and their retreat to Capthorpe House. The weather was beautiful; the country air, invigorating. He loved running through the grounds almost as much as he loved watching his boys play outdoors with their cousins.

However, given that his last face-to-face encounter with Bridget was there at the house, Scott's thoughts would, from time to time, drift back to her. He thought also about the scene he'd witnessed in the park. Scott wished he had gotten a better look at the man who'd become her fiancé in order to better assess his actual age. Something about the man's stance, his manner of dress, the fact that his hair was dark and not shot through with grey as well as the way it was styled, was what had suggested this fiancé was quite a bit younger than Bridget.

Was he even old enough—or rather, experienced enough—to care for Billy and Mabel? Would he be able to command respect without attempting to usurp their father's memory? And perhaps most perplexing of all: what on earth did he have in common with her?

None of these answers, of course, could or would be known to him. He would go around and around in his head, go absolutely mad, if he didn't stop himself.

Fortunately, he had a distraction at just the right time. During a foray into Thetford for some groceries and other supplies, he found himself face to face with a woman he hadn't seen in some time. She was not so much an old flame (with all of the requisite romantic attachments) as an old friend through his family connections, one with whom he'd occasionally slept in their younger days but with whom he had not kept in touch.

"Long time, no see," she said, a broad smile upon her face, appreciation in her hazel eyes. "Whatever it is you've been up to, keep doing it! You look _great_."

He had to admit he was flattered and pleased. "So do you, Susan." It was no exaggeration; her chestnut hair was drawn back and she was smartly dressed in a modest but flattering pale blue seersucker frock for the warm summer day. _The sort of blue_, he thought fleetingly, _that would have suited Bridget very well._

They chatted for a while over the vegetable bins, catching up in brief with one another—she too was divorced, and like him was away from the society in which they had both been raised—when he found himself suddenly asking her to dinner.

"Oh, I'd love that!" she said.

"Great!" he said, then added after a moment's consideration, "Any preferences?"

She chuckled. "I'm not picky," she said. "If you're not picky, either, I suppose we could just walk 'round until we find something."

He laughed.

In the end they agreed to meet back at a lovely little place just across from the library—after he phoned and ensured a table was available—at seven. After all, he had to run his purchases back to the house, notify his brother and sister-in-law that they had sitting duties for the evening, then change into proper dinner attire from his too-casual shorts and tee-shirt.

"Going out for dinner?" asked Sean upon his arrival home, after Scott had told him why he needed the boys supervised. "You mean like a date?"

"Kind of. Well, no," said Scott. "It's just dinner with Susan. You remember Susan, don't you?"

"Oh, I remember Susan. I remember you used to _sleep_ with Susan," said Sean with a grin. "What about the yummy mummy you told me all about?"

Scott pursed his lips. "I tried," he said. "Here, at the house, at the school's concert. A couple of weeks later I saw some young bloke proposing to her in Hampstead Heath."

"Ahhh," said Sean. "Well, _that_ certainly explains your foul mood this summer."

"This," said Scott, choosing to ignore his brother's commentary, "is only dinner."

"Of course," said Sean, then winked. "See you tomorrow morning."

Scott decided to not dignify it with a response, and chose instead to leave his brother's presence (to the sound of light laughter) in order to have a quick shower and dress for dinner; he chose a linen shirt and a light grey linen jacket and trousers.

When he arrived to the restaurant, Susan was already waiting inside, having a cocktail at the bar. She was wearing a dark green evening dress that seemed a bit too formal for the venue, was wearing a bit too much makeup as it was not even sunset yet, though she still looked lovely. "Hi," she said with a bright smile, tossing her hair back over her shoulder; her large gold hoop earrings glinted in the light.

"Hello," he said, bending to give her a friendly peck on the cheek. "Hope you haven't been waiting long."

"Nope, have barely touched my drink." She grabbed her clutch from the bar as well as the drink itself. "Shall we?"

They went to where the table was waiting, and after ordering a drink for himself, they perused the menu and made small talk. His mind kept wandering, though, which annoyed him. She asked about his sons and told him all about her own children, a boy and a girl, which brought his thoughts back to Billy, Mabel, and Bridget.

"Michael, my son… he's just off to uni this autumn," she said, "and Katie's enjoying her summer break before returning to boarding school."

"Boarding school?" he asked.

"Why, yes," she said with a little chuckle. "Come on, you just said your own boys are in boarding school. She loves it. It's given her real character. She was such a wild little thing. Headstrong and impulsive."

"If it works for her," he said, trailing off; he could not help thinking of Mabel sent away from home, and was actually repulsed by the idea. In fact, the very thought of bright, energetic, creative, and slightly untamed little Mabel—he chuckled mentally to think of her 'leafleth'—having her spirit broken at boarding school like it had done to Katie bothered him more than he cared to admit.

They caught up, too, about their personal lives; she explained that she had divorced her husband because he had started running through her family's fortune. "Behind my back, of course. It devastated me to think he could take advantage of me in that way."

Instantly, of course, he thought of Sarah and her attempts to wheedle herself back in to his life for his money. "I wish I didn't know what that felt like," he said, then gave her the barest explanation of all that had happened since his return from military service.

"Oh, God," she said, reaching across the table to cover his hand with hers. "I'm sorry for you. We've been divorced now for five years, and if I never hear from the rotter again it'll be too soon."

"Surely he contacts the children," said Scott.

She shrugged. "A card on birthdays and Christmas. They've learned this is the way it is. I'm sad for them, but I can't control his actions."

Dinner, wine, and her hand found his again; her nails raked across the back and she smiled at him in a knowing way as their after-dinner espressos arrived. "Perhaps dessert at my place," she said, a statement more than a question.

He was not ignorant of her intentions; it made him realise in quite an abrupt way that if this was encouragement, surely Bridget had never once encouraged him. "What about your children?"

"Michael's in Paris," she said. "Katie's at equestrian camp."

He never said yes, but he never said no, either; they finished the coffee, then he paid their bill and followed her out of the restaurant, where she took his hand in hers, then kissed him on the lips. "You remember the way, don't you?"

He nodded.

Sex with Susan was something familiar and comfortable, an old habit he was glad to pick up again, even if it was only for the night; it provided him with an excellent distraction and a measure of relief. Afterwards, as he dozed off to sleep, he thought wryly about what would likely greet him at home in the morning: a very smug brother.

Morning light brought him awake from a lovely dream, suffused with a momentary disorientation at the fact he was not in his own bedroom. He laid there, alone, staring at the sunlit ceiling, mind blank of all thought except for one, Bridget's voice echoing in his head: "…what about love and cuddles?" He very much would have liked to have woken to love and cuddles from her, to be holding her in his arms as he had in the dream—

"Ah, you're awake."

It was Susan returning, bearing a tray of coffee and pastries. The reality of the evening before came back to him. "Morning," he replied, pushing himself upright.

"Thought you might like a little something to help you recharge," she said with a smile.

"Thank you," he said. "The coffee smells very good."

She placed the tray down, then sat, her bare leg peeking out from the dressing gown. "I thought I remembered that you took it black."

"Correct," he said, reaching for the mug, taking a long draw.

When he glanced up again, he found her looking at him with an expression both pensive and amused upon her face.

"What?" he asked.

"Who is she?" asked Susan.

"What?" he asked again.

She laughed. "I'm dropping hints and flashing thigh at you, Scott, and you _thank me for the coffee_. Your mind's elsewhere. With _someone_ else, much like last night. So who is she?"

He felt the heat of embarrassment flush his face. With a reaction like that, he could hardly deny it. "One of the mums at the school. She's recently become… unavailable."

"Oh, I am sorry," she said. "Engagement announcement?"

"Well, not an announcement as such. I saw the proposal."

She looked sceptical. "You _saw_ it? How did _you_ come to be a witness to this popping of the question and her enthusiastic 'yes', I wonder?"

"Well, I wasn't close enough to hear," he said. "But the body language said it all. I was running through Hampstead Heath and there she is, with this… _boy_…"

At this her brows raised. "Was she previously divorced?"

He shook his head. "Widowed." He then explained the situation in brief. Susan remembered the tragedy.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" she asked, sipping her own coffee, choosing a pastry and taking a delicate bite. "After five years without her husband? He's a stepping stone. He's a toy boy."

"A what?"

She burst out laughing. "A toy boy. Come on, Scott. You've never heard of a toy boy before? Had one myself after the divorce. Lovely young thing to boost the ego. Women don't marry their toy boys. Not husband material for a… mature woman."

At this, Scott said nothing. What she was saying made sense, but he knew what he'd seen in the park: down on one knee, then a hug. But… he had never actually seen a nod, a smile, an indicator of the affirmative… though she may as well have whispered an answer into the man's ear.

And even if she hadn't rejected him due to being involved with someone… she might have rejected him just out of lack of interest.

"I don't seem to have helped," said Susan with a chuckle.

"It's all right," he said unconvincingly, then picked up the second pastry and ate it even though he knew he shouldn't.

He finished the coffee, too, found his clothing and dressed, and then kissed her, gave her a quick parting hug. "Get in touch if you need anything more," she said close to his ear, pressing another kiss near his cheek. He had no illusions as to what she was referring.

As he walked to where he'd parked his car along the long circular drive, he heard the most unusual sound: a screech, long and rasping. He looked around himself for the source, and was startled to see, sitting in the shade of a nearby tree, a large barn owl, seemingly staring directly at him in such a piercing and accusing way that he felt unreasonably contrite. He laughed and kept walking. It was, in fact, only an owl.

When Scott arrived home he hoped to do so without drawing attention to himself, though he was unsuccessful; his brother was sitting on the grand staircase just inside the front door, reading the newspaper and drinking coffee. He'd obviously not been there long, given this pink in his cheeks; he imagined his brother hearing the car on the drive and racing to take up his present position.

"Well, Scott, I see it's morning," Sean said cheekily, "and you're just returning, just as you said you would _not_ be doing."

Scott frowned, glaring at him.

Sean laughed. "Would have thought getting laid would have improved your mood."

"Oh, shut up," Scott muttered, striding past him and up the stairs; he thought of saying something a bit stronger, but the boys might have been in earshot.

* * *

><p><em>Weds, 4 September 2013<em>

The summer as a whole had been wonderful; the first summer Scott had had in some time with no obligation to the military, and he had taken full advantage of it. He and his boys returned in London in time for them to spend the last week of the summer break with Sarah. When she came to pick them up, she was polite, friendly and warm, and seemed to know better than to beg or grovel for another chance.

After so much uninterrupted time with his sons, with family around, the empty flat only served to underscore his longing for companionship. His thoughts turned almost obsessively to Bridget, whom he would again be seeing daily. He was as anxious as he was eager to see her again.

There was no such anxiety in thinking of seeing Billy and Mabel again. He had developed such a fondness for them, for the even-keeled, sensible Billy and the sweetly adorable Mabel.

The first day was difficult, but manageable. Seeing Billy again made him smile; he asked Billy about how his summer had gone. Billy then told Scott all about the trip to Paxos with his mum's friends, visits with their Granny Pam and how they went to Devon with her, how much fun they'd had. "And loads of play dates!" said Billy excitedly.

"That sounds really great," Scott said absently; he was mulling over the fact that all of that travel, all of that fun, and there was absolutely no mention of the man his mum was possibly going to marry.

"How about you?" Billy asked. "Did you have a nice summer?"

"I did, thanks," said Scott, gave him a smile, then added, "You should probably get off the field and ready for your mum."

"Oh yeah! Right!"

The end-of-day school run. Scott had been putting off thinking about how he would handle that. He still saw the boys off at the end of the day, and it would have been totally rude to pretend she wasn't there. By the same token, though, she still thought of him as some kind of cheating bastard targeting a lonely, vulnerable widow on a romantic summer night; this misapprehension bothered him to the core and he wanted to set the record straight as soon as possible, but he could not do so without putting himself into a seriously uncomfortable situation… uncomfortable for both of them. At least, he thought, she had not told anyone of his unwanted advances, which would have made it awkward for him around all of the mums.

And then his prayers were answered, two-fold, when Mrs Martinez came to pick up her sons. He could make conversation with her to avoid talking protractedly with Bridget. He could also direct that conversation in a manner that suited his purpose, because if anyone could get the word back to Bridget that he was not, in fact, a cad, it would be Mrs Martinez. He strode towards her.

"Hello and welcome back," he said. "Hope you had a nice summer."

She looked to him as if surprised. "Why, yes, it was very nice," she said. With that she went into an extended discourse on where she and the boys had gone on holiday in France and Italy; he listened but also stayed perfectly aware of who was coming and going. He saw Bridget arrive with Mabel and collect Billy.

"And yourself?" Mrs Martinez asked suddenly. "Where did you go abroad?"

"Oh, my boys and me, we stayed up at the house with my brother and his family," he said; just then Billy passed by with a quick goodbye. Without missing a beat, Scott said, "Goodbye, Billy. We had a wonderful time up there. Got to reconnect with a few old friends." He surreptitiously watched the Darcy clan exit through the school gate.

"It is beautiful, that house of yours," she said, then drew her brows together. "What about your wife… Sarah, was her name? Did she go abroad?"

"Oh, she might have gone abroad. We're divorced," he said casually; he watched for a reaction, saw the look of slight surprise.

"Divorced?" she repeated. "Really?"

"Yes, really," he said.

"Over the summer break?" she asked, then looked abashed, as if she'd asked before she could stop herself.

"No," he said. "I've been divorced for years."

"_Really?_" she asked again, her eyes wide. "What a thing to keep secret!"

He chuckled. "I didn't realise I was keeping a secret."

"Very interesting," she said, more to herself than to him. He could practically see the wheels of her mind turning before she snapped back to the present and focused her attention on Scott again. "Well. I should be off," she said, before turning and barking, "Eros and Atticus, come!" Then she turned back to Scott. "Mr Wallaker. Lovely to talk to you."

"Have a good night," he said, a smile finding the corner of his mouth. He had a feeling that Nicolette would want to share what she'd learned as soon as possible, and in fact, he saw her head not for her vehicle, but for another mum who stood there with her own little boy, and begin to speak animatedly.

…

Scott had divulged this personal information in the hopes that it would make its way back to Bridget sooner rather than later. What he didn't expect was that by the school run the next morning, he noticed that one or two of the usual dour-faced mums were smiling at him, treating him warmly. By the afternoon, more of them were smiling, and a few were even coming to chat him up. While this development was slightly convenient to his plans to keep himself from having to force awkward small talk with Bridget, the chaos he had apparently unleashed was unsettling.

He realised well into the following week that there was no way that Bridget had not heard the news about his marital status. That thought gave him some comfort, even if she never came to talk to him about her misapprehension.

However, as time went on he thought it a bit curious that there had been no mention of a certain piece of news he was sure should have made the rounds: Bridget's engagement. None of the mums had mentioned it. Billy had not mentioned it. As best as he could tell from the distance he kept, she still wore the same wedding band she had always worn. If she wasn't engaged, maybe it was just that she wasn't interested in seeing anyone in general… or in seeing him in particular.

Perhaps he just had to let it go. To not to think about her. In order to do that, he resolved to be more involved with the boys under his tutelage. To that end, he volunteered to manage the chess class again, and added in the responsibilities of arranging choir auditions and taking on pastoral care duties to make himself available to the boys, so that maybe they would not need their therapists quite so often.

Unfortunately, his closer involvement with the students and their mums meant he heard her name, heard about her, more than ever before. He saw more of Billy, too, who seemed quite determined to make the choir this time around. He had to admit that the boy was improving, and if he kept at it, would likely make the cut.

Both choir and pastoral care reiterated to him how happy and well-adjusted Billy seemed for a boy who'd had such tragedy in his life at so young an age. Billy was striving to succeed, but was not anxious when he stumbled; he knew, Scott speculated, that his mother would support him for having done his best, for trying. He found it ironic that Billy was probably the one boy in the entire class who needed the kid glove treatment the least; too many of the mothers had ridiculously lofty goals for such young boys. Atticus, to draw a familiar comparison, was sabotaging himself by anticipating the expectations of his demanding, perfectionist mother, and not just in choir. It seemed an impossible cycle to break without Mrs Martinez changing her own behaviour; Scott tried to do his best for Atticus through pastoral care, but suspected before too long he would be forced to speak to his mother.

How badly Scott had misjudged Bridget at first. He sighed. _Mrs Darcy_.

* * *

><p><em>Mon, 21 October 2013<em>

It was quite possibly the happiest Billy had ever been.

Practising for the choir auditions had borne fruit for him, and he couldn't wait for the end of the school day, for his mother to pick him up to share in his good news. "Mummy helped too, you know," he said to Scott. "We practised trying to hit the notes at home."

"Oh?" Scott asked him. "Does she know how to read music?"

Billy shook his head. "She knows the 'do-re-me' song, though, and she sings it all the time. We have to ask her to stop."

It took him a moment to comprehend exactly which song Billy meant, and when he did he tried to hide his smile. "I'll let you in on a little secret," he said confidentially to Billy. "It's not always important that you can do something well, if you love doing it."

As he said those words, he realised just how far he had come. How much his perspective had changed.

When the final bell rang, Scott went out for his usual end-of-day duties, stepping through the door, taking a casual glance around, and was surprised to find Bridget was already there. Was it his imagination or had she been turning up earlier than she used to turn up for Billy?

From behind him, Billy practically sprinted out the door. "Mummy!" he shouted as he made a bee-line towards her. "I got in! I got in! I got in the choir!"

Within a split-second she bent and put her arms around him, at which he looked a bit abashed at being hugged by his mum, muttering, "Get off."

"Let's go and celebrate!" she said with a smile, her cheeks pink with her excitement for him. Scott felt the dormant attraction flare up. "I'm so proud of you!" she said, offering to treat him to McDonald's, which was clearly a favourite treat.

He found a bit of courage within himself to approach them and stepped forward. "Well done, Billy," he said in an even, neutral tone. "You kept trying and you made it. Good effort."

"Um," she said, looking at Scott; she looked like she might be about to say more, so before she could take the opportunity to embarrass him or her son, before he could embarrass himself in saying something that would be ultimately fruitless, he turned and walked away.

* * *

><p><em>Tues, 5 November 2013<em>

Holding Parents' Night on Bonfire Night was, Scott decided, a stroke of genius. Nobody wanted to stand around and have extended chats when there were parties to attend, fireworks to explode, sparklers to run about with. For the most part, everyone had turned up for their pre-allotted time, heard what Alan had had to say, then took off again. Then there were those who hadn't yet turned up. Mrs Martinez. Bridget.

Alan did not want to abandon the hall in case Bridget turned up, so he asked Scott to get some reports from Valerie so that he would have something to do while he was waiting. Upon his return, arms laden with papers, he found that Bridget had in fact arrived, possibly only a few seconds before he had, as Alan was still checking his watch and giving her a scolding look.

"Ah, Mrs Darcy." Scott strove for a light tone. "Decided to come along after all?"

Very seriously, she said, "I have been at a meeting."

As he set the reports down on Alan's desk, he pondered if mentioning the meeting was a pointed reference to his misapprehension that she was not a working woman. Alan asked her how Billy was.

"He's fine," she said, looking a bit put in the spot. "How is he, you know, at school?"

"He seems very happy."

"Is he all right with the other boys?" She sounded a little anxious; it did not go unnoticed by Scott that she was the only one, all evening, who had asked about her son's well-being before his marks.

"Yes, yes, popular with the boys, very cheerful," Alan said. "Gets a bit giggly in the class sometimes."

"Right, right," she said, though oddly, she looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Deciding to redirect the conversation, Scott said, "I don't think we need to worry too much about giggling." He turned to Alan. "What was the issue you had with the English?"

Alan said, "Well, the spellings…"

"Still?" Scott said abruptly.

"Ah, well, you see," began Bridget, who then launched into a passionate defence of the fluidity of spelling and how their own spelling tests had changed to flow with the times.

"Yes, marvelous, with a single 'l'," Scott said. "But, at this present moment in time, Billy needs to pass his spelling tests or he'll feel like a berk. So could you perhaps practise when you two are running up the hill in the mornings, just after the bell has rung?"

"OK." Seemingly chastened, she looked up to him through her lashes; it occurred to him that he had rather taken the reins of the meeting from Alan, and he did not want to relinquish them. "How is his actual writing? I mean, creatively?"

"Well." Alan started shuffling through the papers on his desk, looking for one in particular. "Ah, yes. We asked them to write about something strange."

This was the first Scott had heard of it, and he asked to see the essay, pulling out his reading glasses, fully aware that Bridget's gaze was upon him. "Something strange, you say," he said, cleared his throat, then read the letter aloud.

Something strange indeed. It was entitled "Mummy" and was all about Bridget, with more details about their home life than she probably cared for them to know: her mad hair in the morning; mixing up the muesli and the Persil; getting Mabel late to Infants (that was no surprise to him) and the source of the girl's fondness for saying "Dammit". The rest of it, though, really touched his heart. The unique encouragement after failing at choir auditions; the triumphant finding of a lost toy; the cuddles he had once so openly scorned… and the mental image of her dancing on her own to "Killer Queen" when she thought no one was looking would stay with him for some time.

Scott knew now that he could not so easily dismiss the feelings he had, not when he cared too much about her family… not when he loved her. He could no longer deny it.

He pulled his specs off to see Alan was red in the face, and that Bridget had sunk down into the chair looking totally mortified.

"Well!" Scott said brightly, trying to put both teacher and parent at ease. "As you say, it communicates what it's trying to communicate very well. A very vivid picture of... something strange."

She met his eyes then and did not look away; he saw a fierce challenge there.

After many moments, Scott turned abruptly and asked Alan, "How about the rest of it?"

Alan replied as if startled. "No. He's—his marks are very good apart from the spelling. Homework's still pretty disorganised."

"Let's have a look." He grabbed the papers from which Alan had pulled out the "strange" essay. Science, planets…

"'Write five sentences, each including a fact about Uranus.'" As Scott paused to consider this, he glanced up, and saw she looked like she was about to burst out laughing. He then looked to Alan. "He only did one sentence. Was there a problem with the question?"

To his surprise, Bridget responded. "I think the problem was it seemed rather a lot of facts to come up with," she said, "about such a featureless galactical area."

"Oh, really?" Scott retorted immediately, fighting his own laughter at her quick wit. "You find Uranus featureless?

"Yes," she said. "Had it been Mars, the famed Red Planet, with recent robot landings, or even Saturn with its many rings—'

His gaze flicked to her chest of their own accord. "Or Mars with its twin _orbs_."

"Exactly."

Unless his ears deceived him, there was something in her tone that spoke of receptiveness. _Indeed_, he thought, _Bonfire Night's a night made for sparks to fly._

The tension, such as it was, was shattered by Alan's inane comment. "But, Mrs Darcy, I personally am more fascinated by Uranus than—"

"Thank you!" she interrupted, then lost herself to helpless laughter.

"Mr Pitlochry-Howard," he said, using every ounce of self-control he had not to laugh, too, "I think we have admirably made our point. And—" He lowered his voice. "—I can quite see whence the giggling originates. Are there any more issues of concern with Billy's work?"

Alan, puzzled, said, "No, no, grades are very good, gets on with the other boys, very jolly, great little chap."

"Well, it's all down to _you_, Mr Pitlochry-Howard," Bridget said in a weird tone. "All that… _teaching_! Thank you so much."

With that she stood then shot out of the hall. He must have read more into their conversation; for her to leave so abruptly did not speak of reciprocated attraction. He felt a bit deflated and prickly as a result

"Well, that was… interesting," said Alan after a few moments of tidying Billy's papers back into his folder, then looked up and raised a brow inquisitively, as Scott took a seat. Alan opened his mouth as if to say more, but before he could, Mrs Martinez came striding in, accompanied by a man that could only be Mr Martinez, his hand hovering at her waist as they entered.

"Mr Pitlochry-Howard," she said evenly, then offered a perfunctory, "Mr Wallaker." She folded her arms across her chest. "Let's get down to business. Atticus. His marks. His place in the class."

"That's what I was hoping to discuss with you," Alan began, staring down at his papers, which included the unofficial class placements. "Atticus is a bit unsettled. I just wonder if Atticus might be a little overextended. He seems to have so many after-school clubs and play dates. He's a little anxious sometimes. He becomes despairing if he doesn't feel he is on top."

"Where _is_ he in the class?" Mrs Martinez demanded. "How far _is_ he from the top?" Alan brought his arm over the chart like he was shielding a test from a fellow student. In her irritation, she flicked her hair back. "Why don't we know their relative performance levels? What are the class positions?"

"We don't do class positions, Mrs Martinez," Alan said.

"Why not?" she asked. Her tone was pleasant, but her intent was anything of the sort.

"It's really about doing their personal best," Alan said.

"Let me explain something," she said in that same simmering-with-impatience tone. "I used to be CEO of a large chain of health and fitness clubs, which expanded throughout the UK and into North America. Now I am CEO of a family. My children are the most important, complex and thrilling product I have ever developed. I need to be able to assess their progress, relative to their peers, in order to adjust their development."

Scott was horrified to hear, distilled into so many words, what he had known all along her parenting theory to be. What horrified him more was that as little as a year ago, he might have sided with her; he realised then the full extent of how he must have appeared to Bridget upon their acquaintance. How he probably still appeared to her.

Alan was obviously intimidated by her, and it showed in every way possible, especially the tremor in his voice as he spoke. "Healthy competition has its place but when an obsession with relative position replaces a pleasure in the actual subject…"

"And you feel that extra-curricular activities and play dates are stressing him out?" Mrs Martinez asked mockingly, narrowing her eyes.

Mr Martinez, obviously just as cowed by her, rested a hand on her arm and said in a pacifying tone, "Darling…"

"These boys need to be rounded. They need their flutes. They need their fencing. Furthermore," Mrs Martinez said, "I do _not_ see social engagements as 'play dates'. They are team-building exercises."

Scott Wallaker could take no more, not after hearing her words, not after thinking of what Atticus went through every day trying to jump through her hoops, not after thinking of what Bridget had said to him so long ago that he had dismissed all too readily.

"_They are children!_" he roared. "They are not corporate products! What they need to acquire is not a constant massaging of the ego, but confidence, fun, affection, love, a sense of self-worth. They need to understand, _now_, that there will always—_always_—be someone greater and lesser than themselves, and that their self-worth lies in their contentment with who they are, what they are doing and their increasing competence in doing it."

Naturally, Mrs Martinez completely missed the object of his words. "I'm sorry?" she asked sarcastically. "So there's no point trying? I see. Then, well, maybe we should be looking at Westminster."

_Don't let the door hit you_, he thought, but said only, "We should be looking at who they will become as adults. It's a harsh world out there. The barometer of success in later life is not that they always win, but how they deal with failure. An ability to pick themselves up when they fall, retaining their optimism and sense of self, is a far greater predictor of future success than class position in Year 3."

Once again, Mrs Martinez showed no sign of comprehending what she was hearing, other than to comment in a smooth voice, "It's not a harsh world if you know how to win. What is Atticus form position, please?"

"We don't give form positions," Scott reiterated icily, getting to his feet in what he consciously knew to be an intimidation tactic. "Is there anything else?"

"Yes," she said, determined to have the last word, it seemed. "His French."

Atticus' parents sat, and Scott realised as he sat too that the night had just begun.

…

"That woman," said Alan Pitlochry-Howard after taking a long draw off of a pint, "is a living, breathing _nightmare_."

Scott chuckled, drinking from his own bitter. He'd never heard a bad word about anyone from his friend, but Mrs Martinez was enough to drive even the bitterest of enemies to share a couple of pints at the pub.

"And," Alan went on, "I appreciate the little speech you gave to her there… I agree with you wholeheartedly, but I'm afraid you're singing into the wind with that one."

"Yeah, I know," he said dejectedly. "I just couldn't hold back anymore."

"Speaking of not holding back…" Alan's voice dropped. "What was that all about?"

Scott turned to him. "I'm not sure what you mean. With Mrs Martinez?"

"No, before that," he said. "I can be a bit oblivious, as you well know, but I don't think I've ever actually seen you flirt with anyone."

"Oh, God," said Scott, covering his eyes with his hand.

"And to be honest," Alan went on, "I'm not sure I've ever seen Mrs Darcy flirt, either."

He took his hand away from his face, taken aback with disbelief. It was one thing to have momentarily deceived himself into thinking she was acting more warmly towards him, but for someone else to comment upon it was something else altogether. Was it possible she really had been flirting? "She wasn't," he said, rather too defensively.

"Oh, I think that she was," Alan said. "Is there, you know, something going on there?"

"No," said Scott quickly; the last thing he needed was to get reprimanded for fraternising with a student's mother.

"Hmm," said Alan, taking another sip before he murmured, "That's a pity."

As they parted, Scott thought even more about what Alan had said. Could it be true she'd really been flirting with him, or had she just been friendly towards him because of the way he, her son's teacher, had been avoiding her? There was still so much he didn't know, the least of which was the identity and the status of the man in the park.

The uncertainty didn't stop his mind, though, from wandering back to Capthorpe House; to Billy playing football alongside his sons and nephews; to Mabel chasing the baby bunnies across the grounds in the spring with delighted giggles; to breakfasting with Bridget on the terrace as the sun rose.

He chuckled as he thought, _Who am I kidding? Sunrise would probably never happen. Sunset? Maybe._

As encouraged as Scott felt about the possibility of pursuing something with Bridget Darcy, though, he was also feeling extremely cautious. He did not want to make a wrong move, especially when he had no idea what her feelings were in return—if she had any at all. He resolved then to keep watching for signs; not avoiding her, but not coming on too strongly, either. There was a part of him, too, that feared a final rejection if he acted too soon. He hated the thought of the door closing for good on any sort of future.

* * *

><p><em>Sat, 23 November 2013<em>

"Uncle Scott?"

It had been a relatively lovely afternoon, the sort of crisp, sunny autumn day that inspired a long, contemplative walk around his neighbourhood. He didn't imagine he would see a soul that he knew, so he was doubly surprised to run into his niece.

"Miranda, hey," he said, giving her a quick hug. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"Just out and about, mostly looking for shoes," she said. "No luck so far."

Scott chuckled. "I didn't realise this was the hot spot for shoes."

"This _is_ the 'it' spot, you know," she said then smiled back.

"Well, come on," Scott said, then nodded to a Starbucks across the lane. "Let's get something warm to drink."

"Ooh, yes, please."

Whilst waiting for their cappuccinos, Scott happened to glance out of the front windows, and to his surprise, spotted Bridget just outside, as if she'd emerged from a nearby shop. "Miranda," he said, not looking to her, "get these when they're ready."

"Where are you going? Who's that?"

He didn't remain long enough to answer. Bridget was standing there, staring at a bus stop poster, casually dressed and prettily coiffed. "Hello," he said, unable to resist a smile.

She turned at the sound of his voice, and he didn't think he imagined that she seemed pleased to see him. She ran her fingers through her hair and said, "Mr Wallaker!"

"Hello!" he said again, feeling a bit ridiculous as soon as he said it, but he didn't care. She seemed to be flirting with him, and he liked it a lot.

Her features went a bit more serious all of a sudden. "Look," she said, "I just want to say… I'm sorry I said all that at the school concert and was so lippy with you all those times when you were just being kind. But I thought you were married. And the thing is, I know everything. I mean, not everything. But I know about you being in the SAS and—"

His blood ran cold at the mention of his carefully guarded military background, the horrors he had seen and experienced. "What did you say?"

"Jake and Rebecca live across the road and…" She trailed off; he looked away, feeling unexpectedly betrayed by his old friend, and he considered what to do. How much, exactly, had Jake told her? "It's all right," she continued. "I haven't told anybody. And the thing is, you see, I know what it's like when something really bad happens."

"I _don't_ want to talk about it," he said gruffly.

"I know, you think I'm an awful mother," she went on, "and spend the whole time in the hairdresser's and buying condoms, but I'm actually _not_ like that. Those gonorrhoea leaflets—Mabel had just picked them up at the doctor's. I don't have gonorrhoea or syphilis…"

"Am I interrupting?"

It was Miranda, exiting the Starbucks with their drinks. Scott was not sure if he was grateful for her appearance or not.

"Hi," Miranda continued, handing him his drink.

Scott realised he should say something. "This is Miranda," he said with some awkwardness. "Miranda, this is Mrs Darcy, one of our school mothers."

"Bridget!" They all turned; a woman was running down the street with something in hand. "You left your wallet in the salon," she said, pressing the wallet into her hands. "How's the colour? No more shades of grey for you for Christmas!" Her tone was chirpy and pleasant.

"It is very nice, thank you. Happy Christmas." She was speaking in a strange, robotic voice; the hairdresser then walked away. She then looked to the pair of them. "Happy Christmas, Mr Wallaker. Happy Christmas, Miranda."

With that, she walked away.

"Happy Christmas?" Miranda asked, with a smile.

"The hairdresser," he said, sipping his coffee, though his mind was miles away. He kept turning over in his head what she'd said, that she was convinced that he thought she was a bad mum. Nothing could be further from the truth.

"Do you often discuss things like that with your students' mums?" she continued, her tone slightly teasing. "Or only the ones you're interested in?"

"What?" he asked, returning his attention fully to his niece.

"Well, I don't hear 'I don't have gonorrhoea or syphilis' come up often in casual conversation, so—"

"Miranda," he said sharply. "Drop it."

"Sorry, sorry," she said. "Forgive me. I just thought she seemed… nice. Come on, walk with me to the next shop. I won't make you come inside, I promise."

After a few paces, during which they sipped from their drinks, Miranda asked, "So, is she single?"

He thought about telling her to drop it again, but instead said, "Yes."

"Ohhh," said Miranda as the light dawned. "_She_ was the yummy mummy, wasn't she?"

_Bloody Sean_, he thought. He must have told her. "I'm going to kick my brother's arse," he murmured, looking downward to his feet as he walked.

Miranda chuckled. "It's really okay," she said, slipping her free hand through his elbow. "Any woman who could be that candid about her sexual health can't be all that bad."

He smiled. "I will never get used to hearing you talk like a grown-up," he said, feeling his mood lifting a bit. "In my mind, you'll always be nine."

They reached the next shop; Miranda disengaged herself from his arm and turned to him. "You know, Dad only wants you to be happy," Miranda said. "So do I."

"I know," he said, then forced a smile. "Well. It was nice bumping into you."

"Nice seeing you too," she said, popping up and pecking his cheek. "Thanks for the capp, Uncle Scott."

She went into the shop, and he continued walking back towards his flat, contemplating the conversation, enumerating his regrets. He wished he had not shut down over her mention of his service in SAS, which shut her down in turn and sent her off on the wild leaflet tangent. She had only started out offering an explanation for what she'd said at the summer concert, which was all he'd been wanting to hear, anyway. She didn't think badly of him, at least not anymore. The fact that she had apologised was more than he had expected.

Had the encounter answered all of his questions? Not really. While a good first step, Scott still knew nothing about what she might feel for him have beyond 'I no longer dislike you'… and more importantly, he knew nothing about her relationship status.

When all was said and done, he didn't feel like he had much of a gain at all. He pitched his cup away, then shoved his hands in his pockets and walked in silent contemplation the rest of the way home.

* * *

><p><em>Tues, 26 November 2013<em>

With the help of his sons, he had learnt a good deal more about computers; he had bought a newer model computer with a more modern operating system, to the boys' delight. He had even gotten a bit more savvy in navigating around and using things like the word processing program and the web browser, even if he hadn't managed to track down Bridget Darcy on Twitter.

That morning at his desk, before his first class of the day, the sound he had come to recognise as a new incoming mail chirped, and he turned from the book he was skimming to see what had arrived.

The message from Mrs Martinez, subject: "The school fucking concert", was quite shocking to him. Not that the salty language surprised him—he had been in the service, after all—but the fact that such salty language was coming from the ever-proper Mrs Martinez was quite a revelation:

_Just to let you know I don't give a flying fuck who brings the mince pies or mulled wine this year and you can all turn up whenever the FUCK you like because I don't FUCKING WELL GIVE A FUCK._

With a chuckle, he closed the email and wondered what on earth could have happened to cause Mrs CEO Martinez to go off the rails like this. He couldn't quite decide if she would apologise as soon as she came to her senses, or would just ignore it outright, pretend like it never happened, like (as his mates in the service were wont to crudely say) a fart in church.

It turned out to be the latter option, sort of; she did send a follow-up email on Wednesday with the proper concert-related requirements but with no mention of the previous day's obscenity-laden email. The day after that, however, during that same morning break, he had a visitor to his office just off of the sports field. It was a very chastened-looking Nicolette Martinez.

"Mr Wallaker," she said tentatively. "I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time."

He rose from his desk. "By all means," he said.

"You don't mind if I close the door, do you?"

"Of course not."

She entered, sat before his desk as he took his own seat again.

"I just wanted a bit of privacy," she explained, gesturing towards the closed door.

"I understand," he said. "How may I help you?"

"You only need to listen," she said. "I owe you a big apology."

"About the email?" he asked.

"Yes, about the email, and more," she said. "I was having some… well, they have nothing to do with the concert, and I'm afraid I lost my cool. If I could have recalled the message I would have. I… just don't want you to pull me from the concert committee."

"Mrs Martinez," he said, lacing his fingers, setting his hands down on the desk. "You _are_ rather the concert committee, so even if I had sole discretion over who stays or goes—which I don't—it would be foolish to pull you."

"Thank you, Mr Wallaker," she said. Seeing her so contrite was refreshing.

"However," he continued. "I must ask you to apologise to more than just myself for the email outburst, by email, to the mail list."

He had the feeling she wanted to look down in shame, but she held fast. "I understand," she said. "I will, as soon as we're done." She took in another breath. "I also… wanted to apologise to you for my rudeness at the Parents' Night."

This he had never seen coming.

She continued. "I have come to realise that you only have the boys' best interests at heart. I have seen first hand what it means for them to just have a little encouragement, love and fun. For them to just be children. Helping them succeed is teaching them how to deal with failure."

It was strange for Scott to hear his own ideas come back to him through her filters. Well, not his ideas; they had, after all, been Bridget's.

For a lack of knowing what else to say, he simply muttered, "Okay."

"It's going to take me some time," she said, "but I'll try. I saw how different Atticus and Eros were at Billy's house. I saw them as boys, not… products. So thank you, Mr Wallaker."

"You're welcome, Mrs—" In that moment, he realised exactly what she had said. Billy's house. Bridget. "—Martinez."

With that, she looked as relieved as he'd ever seen her; she smiled, pushed back from the desk and out of the seat. "Thanks again," she said.

Long after she was gone, Scott sat there and wondered how Mrs Martinez and her two boys had come to spend time at Bridget's… or why. Mrs Martinez had, in the past, not exactly said kind things about Bridget and her parenting style. It was something of a mystery to him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6<strong>

_Friday, 29 November 2013_

In the almost-week since the encounter outside of the hairdresser's, he noticed there was none of the potential for flirting he'd sensed with her then. She barely acknowledged him—it did not escape his sense of irony that she seemed to be treating him in much the same way as he had treated her at the start of the term—and when she did it was curt and perfunctory.

It seemed more and more likely that she had never been flirting at all. Or that she was treating him similarly to how she treated others. Or she was so completely put off by the way he had shut down their discussion that she—

He knew he had to stop speculating. _This way lies madness_, he thought.

Fortunately, he had something that day to take his mind off of it: a football match at a neighbouring school, East Finchley. It was a terrific match, and now he was awaiting the arrival of the parents for pick-up. Some of the boys were winding down on the sunken sports court, kicking a ball around. Some of the mums had already arrived and were chatting, in no hurry to leave; Bridget was amongst them, talking with Mrs Martinez. Scott had taken it upon himself to ensure that the cars were not coming onto the grounds, like the parents had been instructed, for safety reasons.

And then suddenly the roar of an engine announced the arrival of a black BMW, which came directly up to the school at far too fast a pace before screeching to a halt; its driver was obliviously talking on his mobile behind the closed window, engine still engaged and running.

Without hesitation he marched to the car. "Excuse me." When the man did not acknowledge him, Scott rapped a knuckle firmly on the window. "Cars are not allowed in the school grounds," he said at a volume that could penetrate the glass, the sound of the engine, the chatter from the phone. "Park in the street, please."

At last the window came down. "Time is money for some of us, my friend."

"It's a safety issue."

The BMW driver made a dismissive sound. "Safety," he pooh-poohed. "I'll be two minutes."

Scott levelled a stare at him of the sort that sent his boys to scrambling. "Move. The. Car."

What this man did next was probably supposed to have been some kind of angry flounce of protest: he threw the car into gear and reversed at top speed. Unfortunately, he didn't look first, and rammed directly into the steel pole that supported the chain link fence around the sport court. In his embarrassment and agitation he hit the accelerator once more, only forgot to put the car into drive.

The result was a terrifying slow-motion domino effect: the post started to go over; he shouted for the boys' attention, for them to get back from the fence; as they did, the post went over, taking the fence with it, which draped down and buckled over the post; and the car kept moving too, until its rear wheels started to overhang the pit.

All conversation had ceased. Everyone was frozen. Scott's military training, however, kicked into overdrive; he ran forward and jumped down with the boys to assess the situation, barking instructions to those above to call for emergency services, and to weigh down the front end of the car.

He was afraid, though, that it was too late to keep the car from sliding in and crushing the post and the fence. He didn't care about the car; he had to account for all of the boys.

He turned, scanning the group, scanning the wreckage. Everyone was fine. No one had been hurt. Just one small complication: three of the boys had gotten trapped behind the fallen fence. One of those three was Billy.

He heard a gasp, then another pair of shoes hit the ground. Even without looking he knew it was Bridget; he figured she was the only one of the mums brave enough to join him. He wanted to tell her to get out of there, but with Billy in there, there was no time to convince her she was better off up there. "It'll be all right," he said to her calmly. "I've got this."

And he did. He crouched down, treating the whole situation like one of the exercises they had done during his class. The familiarity of it, he hoped, would help them to focus, and he was right; they looked less terrified, and did exactly as instructed. Scott ignored the sound of the shrieking mothers; he also ignored the sound of the car moving further into the pit until he could ignore it no longer.

"Stay against the wall, boys!" he commanded with equal calm, coming closer still. "This is going to be good!" With that, he crouched and as best as he could put his back into pushing the chassis back up, shouting up impatiently to the mothers again to get some weight down onto the front end.

Once he lifted the car enough, felt it stabilise, he commanded the boys to stay next to the wall, to move away to their right, and get out from under the fence. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Bridget and others who'd come down moving towards from where the boys would hopefully soon emerge. Amongst the lot of them, they strained to hold up the fence so the boys could squeeze out.

Billy was in line to come out last.

There were firemen that were suddenly there, and the first two boys—Bikram, Jeremiah—were out. He watched Bridget reach in as soon as Jeremiah was free to take Billy under his arms and heave him out with a strength and speed that surprised him, rather like his own ability to keep that car from crashing down on them. His arms, though, were trembling. He wouldn't be able to hold out much longer. He shouted, "That's the last one! Come on!" Without further prompting the firemen rushed up alongside him, standing on the now-vacated fence to brace themselves.

Scott heard Billy crying for Mabel: "Where's Mabel? We have to save her!" Scott knew, though, that Mabel had never been on the court, so he wasn't worried. He had no time to worry, not when the driver of the car actually opened the door and climbed out, causing it to slide further in.

"It's coming down!" he shouted, his voice hoarse. "Get out, guys!"

As a single unit they—Scott and the emergency workers—all jumped back and away from the car, which then completed its fall, crashing down onto the pile of twisted metal, glass from the windows shattering and flying all over the court.

"My Bima!" cried the horrified driver of the destroyed vehicle.

Scott found himself with no sympathy—easy to do when there were no casualties—and in fact grinned wickedly as he said, "Time is money, dickhead."

Still riding high on adrenaline, Scott leapt out of the pit, looking immediately for where the boys had gathered. There was Billy, Mabel… Bridget. He jumped up onto the school's steps, and then shouted for quiet over the utter chaos.

"Everyone stand still!" he said, and amazingly, they did. "Now, boys. In a second you'll be lining up to be checked and counted. But first, listen up. You just had a real adventure. No one got hurt. You were brave, you were calm, and three of you—Bikram, Jeremiah and Billy—were cut-and-dried Superheroes. Tonight you're to go home and celebrate, because you've proved that when scary stuff happens—which it will—you know how to be brave and calm."

He shot a glance to Billy. The boy couldn't have looked prouder. As he passed by Bridget, he offered her a smile.

"All in a day's work?" she asked him.

"Seen worse," Scott said, and it wasn't a lie. "And at least your hair didn't blow up."

The three children who were trapped beneath the fence were taken to the hospital by ambulance, accompanied by their mothers (and Mabel). Scott offered to drive her car to follow the ambulance, and without saying a word she pulled the keys from her handbag and gave them to him only gestured in the general direction of the car, which he spotted it without needing to ask further. He was grateful to have recognised it.

Closely he followed the ambulances until he diverted to the hospital car park. Across the street he spotted a McDonald's, which he recalled being a favourite treat of Billy's, so he diverted there to pick something up for the children: packets of chicken nuggets and a mass of fries.

When he arrived, Bikram and Jeremiah had been joined by their fathers. Bridget, who frankly still looked a little shell-shocked, held a dozing Mabel, Billy grinning at her side, and for a moment he was struck by the parallel to the funeral photo. As he handed out food to the children—Mabel woke and looked like she'd won the lottery when she saw the fries—Scott reiterated how brave they had been, explaining for the benefit of the fathers everything that had happened. "They were pretty much action heroes," he said in conclusion, winking to Billy. The boys' dads looked very proud of them.

The check-ups had gone well and they were all cleared to go home; after Jeremiah's and Bikram's families left, Scott remembered that he still had Bridget's car keys. He dug them out then reached to hand them to her.

However, she still looked shattered. "You OK?" he asked, then made an executive decision: "I'll drive you home."

"No!" she said, a little too defensively. "I'm absolutely fine!"

"Listen," he said, thinking of her vehemence at attending her meetings, voicing independence, "it doesn't make you less of a top professional feminist if you let somebody help you."

She opened her mouth as if to respond, but then closed it again, and nodded.

The duration of the drive was spent in silence except for the occasional direction by Bridget, and Billy's retelling to Mabel of his adventure (Billy's term, which amused Scott) that afternoon. It was the first time he'd been to Bridget's house, but the neighbourhood looked oddly familiar. As she told him to pull into a drive, he realised why it was so familiar, remembered Bridget telling him that Jake and Rebecca lived just across the way from her; they'd lived there for years, even if they hadn't always spent time there when Jake was on tour. It explained, just as she'd alluded, how Bridget had come to learn about Scott's military service, but it didn't explain how he'd come up in conversation. _Probably Billy_, Scott decided.

The minute they got into the house, once parked onto the sofa, it was clear the children were their normal, happy, well-adjusted selves. Bridget, however, looked stunned still. She came back around to stand next where Scott was waiting.

"What do you need?" he asked her.

She ran her hand over her face, trying to think. "Their cuddly toys?" she said at last in an uncertain tone. "They're upstairs on the bunk beds."

Scott recalled the mention of Billy's toy from the 'strange' essay. "Puffle Two?"

"Yes. And One and Three, Mario, Horsio and Saliva."

"Saliva?" Scott asked.

"Her dolly."

Scott nodded once, turned, and then realised he had no idea where anything was in the house. It was not a large house, though warm, comfortable and what he would consider cosy. It stood to reason that the bedrooms were upstairs, so he went up a floor (one they clearly never spent time using) and then kept going up. The first open door he passed was not a child's; a quick glance inside told him it was Bridget's room. As quickly as possible he tried to take in as much detail about the room as he could; he saw a slight disarray, the same warmth as the rest of the house, and nothing of a male presence.

He did, however, notice a shiny glint of metal at about shoulder height. As he kept walking, he realised what it was: a hook to keep the door barred.

_Hmm_, he thought.

He found the children's room, which made him smile; there were the bunk beds, and there on the top was a pile of toys. The bottom had a single doll on it, and the top was stuffed with plush toys. He wondered at first if he'd be able to carry three Puffles, a Mario plush toy, a horse, and Mabel's doll, but he did.

As Scott arrived back to the lowest level of the house, Bridget was struggling with the remotes; rather, she stood there holding them, staring at them, as if willing them to come to life on their own. He distributed the toys to their owners and asked her, "Shall I have a go?"

She handed the remotes to him; he pressed the power button on each one, and with that set them down. When he looked to her, she looked like she was about to fall apart. The children were transfixed by the television. He reached, took her gently by the upper arm, and pulled her out of the line of sight of Billy and Mabel.

As soon as they were behind the sofa, she began to sob, and it occurred to him that he hadn't yet seen her shed a tear. "Shhh. Shhh," he said. Instinctively he pulled her into an embrace. "No one was hurt. I knew it was going to be fine."

He felt her lean into him, sniffing through her sobs.

And then, in a soft, reassuring tone, he said, "You're doing all right, Bridget. You're a good mum and dad, better than some who have a staff of eight and a flat in Monte Carlo. Even if you have put snot on my shirt."

He heard her let out a little sigh, felt her relax a little, which suggested that his sincerely meant words had made her feel better. Holding her in his arms had certainly felt good to him, and he took the luxury of—for the briefest moment—closing his eyes.

But then Mabel cried out that the cartoon had ended, and the doorbell went off at the same time; she broke away, muttering her excuses as she went up for the door. Within a few moments footsteps came back down the stairs. "—heard about the school thing. What happened?" said a female voice he recognised; one look at her, at the tiny fairy lights woven into her hair, confirmed his suspicion. It was Rebecca come over from across the way; she'd always been a bit of an eccentric woman. "Oh! Hello, Scott."

"Hello," he said. He smiled a little. "Good to see you," he said. "Headgear unexpectedly understated… but still."

Rebecca grinned, then glanced to Bridget, the children, then back to Scott. It seemed she was about to say more when the doorbell went off again. "That'll be Jake and the kids," Rebecca said, almost sheepishly. "Is that all right?"

"Of course!" she said. "The kids could use the… _normalcy_ of it, I think." Then she dashed back up the stairs to get the door.

Jake, not unsurprisingly, was startled to see his old friend in his neighbour's home, though he grinned and came up to clap Scott on the upper arm. "Long time, no see," he said. "Heard this afternoon had a bit of excitement."

"Just a bit."

Jake and Rebecca's children, Finn and Oleander, seemed to be about the same ages as Billy and Mabel, and acted a little shy as their parents made introductions to Scott. "I haven't seen you, Finn, since you were a tiny baby," said Scott. "And you—" He pointed to the dark-haired little girl, Oleander. "—I've never met before at all."

Mabel said proudly to Oleander, "Dis is Mr Wolkda."

As the boys went over to the Xbox and the girls went to play with the Sylvanian bunnies, Bridget passed out some chocolate and the whole house filled with the pleasant buzz of happy chattering children. Scott then recounted privately to Jake what had happened at the school that day in the briefest of terms.

"When I first heard it I thought how strange it is that you're teaching at the same school that Billy goes to," said Jake. "I'd told her I saw you at the Heath, filled her in with what you told me, but I don't guess she made the connection until we got home from the touring and she had a chance to talk to Bridget again."

"When was that?" Scott asked.

"Oh, hm, August, I think?" said Jake. "I remember her moving in, years ago," Jake went on. "Happened to be home around that time. Didn't see her much, but when we did, would always think she looked a bit like a phantom. Poor thing."

There was that phrase again—_poor thing_—and it stabbed Scott through with pain; they, too, must have known who she was from the papers.

Jake continued, "Rebecca was pretty happy to have befriended her. Seems like it happened at just the right time."

Scott's gaze drifted her way; Bridget seemed to keep trying to talk to Billy, who was obviously rebuking the efforts, retorting that he was a superhero and that he was okay. He couldn't help noticing Bridget's gaze had been wandering in their direction, too; he also saw Rebecca notice as well, and she raised her brows as she turned back to look at Bridget. He wondered if his interest in Bridget been so transparent…

It was then Scott's mobile began to go off; he couldn't help thinking he'd been saved by the bell. He removed it from his pocket, saw it was Martin Miller calling, and knew he had to take it. "Pardon me," he said to Jake, then answered the call, turning to shield the phone from the noise of the room.

"Hey," he said in answering. "I should have phoned you sooner."

"Darn right you should have," said Miller, not angry, but anxious. "I've been fielding phone calls all day; just got off of the phone with East Finchley's headmaster, who is understandably trying to sort out all of the insurance stuff. I wanted to talk to you before sending him in your direction."

"Understandable, indeed," he said, reality crashing back to the forefront. His eyes darted to the crowd, to Bridget, whom he did not wish to further upset. "I can't talk where I am right now, though. Shall we meet for a pint?"

"We don't have to, if you're busy."

Scott considered; he wanted very much to stay, but given Bridget's vulnerability, he could unwittingly take advantage of that state even with the best of intentions. He needed to go. "I'll meet you there. Same place as before."

"Great. Thanks."

Martin disconnected the call. "I have to go," Scott said, punching a button on his phone. He turned to look at Jake. "You guys will look after them tonight, right, Jake?"

Jake nodded, and Rebecca did, too.

He headed up the stairs, realised someone was coming up behind him. As he got to the front door, he turned just as Bridget said, clearly a bit nervous, "I'm so grateful. It's you who is the Superhero. I mean 'are'. I mean is."

"'Are'," he said with a small smile. "And it was my pleasure." As he went through the door, descended the front steps, he added quietly, "Superheroine."

He strode down the walk, forcing himself not to look back as he walked down towards the main road, where he could get a taxi to the pub to talk to Martin.

Only when he was en route to the pub did he realise he had a dozen missed calls and several voice mail messages: Alan, Sean, Sarah, and even his sons. He rang up his boys first, who told him the events at East Finchley had made the news; this explained the calls and messages. "Call your uncle and your mum for me, will you?" he asked as the taxi arrived to the pub. "Let them know I'm just fine. I've got to go talk to my boss about today."

"They're not gonna sack you, are they, Dad?" Matt asked.

Scott chuckled. "I should hope not," he said.

Inside the pub he quickly found Martin, who was sitting there with an agitated-looking Alan. Each of the men had a half-empty pint glass before them, and a full pint placed before the empty chair at the table, obviously meant for him.

Scott had a sudden feeling it was going to be a very long night.

"Sorry for the delay, and for being so hard to reach," Scott said, taking that empty seat. "I took home Mrs Darcy and her children after the hospital check-up. She was in no condition to drive. Made sure they had someone to keep them company tonight."

Martin and Alan turned, shared a look that he could not quite discern, then turned back to him. "How is Billy?" asked Alan, concern evident in his voice. "As if the poor boy hasn't gone through enough in his young life."

"He's fine," Scott said. "Keeps calling himself a Superhero."

"Could be for show," said Alan. "Let's talk first about how we can talk to the children about this on Monday."

A very long night, indeed.

…

When Scott returned to his flat, he was astonished to find it was lit, with the scent of stew wafting through the air. "Oh, Mr Wallaker!" cried Martha, getting to her feet, running to him; for a moment he thought she might hug him, but she didn't. "I hear all about the car at the school and your brave deeds, so I thought it only right you should have something nice and hot to eat."

After the events of the day, after the meeting with Martin and Alan, it felt to him like the wee hours, but in actual fact it was barely after eight in the evening. "That's very kind of you, Martha," he said. He'd had a starter dish at the pub but was in fact hungry again. "It smells wonderful."

"It didn't seem right," she said, furrowing her brows, "you coming home to empty nothing."

He smiled. "Thank you again."

"Come, come, have seat." She pointed to the recliner, which she ordinarily never would have done, but the recliner was far more comfortable for relaxing. "I'll fix you big bowl."

He did as directed, and within minutes she brought a large bowl of beef stew; she also offered to pour him a glass of wine. "Best not," he said. "I had a couple of pints before I came home. Informal meeting about the events of the day with my boss."

"They're not angry, surely?" Martha asked, taking a seat across from the sofa.

"No," he said. "We discussed the impact on the boys, how to proceed on Monday. No one was hurt, but that doesn't mean the boys aren't still a little afraid."

"You were at the pub all this time, from the afternoon?"

He shook his head as he polished off another spoonful of the delicious stew. "Three of the boys had got trapped under the crushed fence. They had to be checked for injuries and cleared. Happy to say they are all just fine. Then Billy's mother Bri—er, Mrs Darcy, she really needed driving home. So I took her there." He took in a breath. "She's a widow, you see, and I thought she could use a little emotional support."

"Oh, that's sad, so worried for her little ones, probably more worried than they are, and no one at home, either," said Martha, frowning a little.

"Something like that," he said glumly, feeding himself another generous spoonful.

Martha seemed to be studying his features, then stated with great confidence, "You care about her, yes?"

Scott very nearly coughed on his stew. "Pardon?"

"Well, the way you look talking about this lady, Mrs Darcy… your eyes, very soft, and such concern in your expression." She smiled knowingly. "Plus, you almost call her by her given name, if I did not mishear."

He smiled a little, feeling his face flush. There was no putting one over on her. "I do care about her, yes, very much," he admitted. "Her name is Bridget."

"I thought so," she said, grinning widely. "You couldn't go back after the meeting?"

"I don't think she cares the same way I do," he said. "She's grateful for today, for sure, but…" He trailed off. "She might be seeing someone else. Possibly engaged. Plus," he added, affecting a lighter time, "I would have missed this delicious stew, and worried you, on top of it."

"Bah. Stew would keep."

At this he said nothing more, just kept eating until it was gone. In the meantime, Martha stood again to put the rest of the stew into storage containers; he still detected a bit of irritation from her that he had chosen to come home rather than go back to Bridget's.

_As if I'd intrude on their evening_, he thought. She was in good hands, after all, with Jake and Rebecca. The children were suitably distracted by Finn and Oleander. He reasoned he should keep a bit of distance so that she didn't confuse her gratitude with something more.

The last thought that crossed his mind, though, before dozing off that evening was: if she were engaged, where had her fiancé been today?

* * *

><p><em>Early December, 2013<em>

The return to school proved that the children were as resilient as everyone said they'd be after a crisis. Instead of subdued silence or an atmosphere of fear, the three boys who had been the most in danger were treated like minor celebrities by their classmates wherever they went. Scott himself had somehow managed to command a whole new level of respect from the boys, too, which was convenient for the final week of chorus rehearsal before the big carol concert.

The boys' mothers also seemed to amp up their flattery and attention even more than they had after when they'd learned he was not married. The only one who hadn't been fawning over him, however, was the only one he cared to have attention from. While it was true that Bridget was more friendly towards him, this might just have been her gratitude surfacing again.

He noticed she continued to be early each day for Billy's pick up. He was glad she had taken his suggestion to heart. She always made sure to say hello to him, just as he said to her; she was very attentive and engaging, asking about how Billy was post-sport-court disaster.

"He's doing very well in school," he said. "His bassoon playing has really improved, as has his singing. I think you'll be very proud for the concert. And how's Mabel doing?"

"She's doing well, as you see," Bridget said, indicating where Mabel was running around on the grass. Then she chuckled. "Well, aside from wanting Oleander to be her sister, and in trade sending Billy over to Jake and Rebecca."

He couldn't help chuckling, too.

There was only so much to chat about every day, though, so while their interactions were pleasant, they were also far too brief.

"Mr Wallaker?"

Scott came out of his reverie at the sound of Valerie's voice. "Yes? Did you need something?"

"Not really," she said, then looked in the direction Bridget had retreated. "May I be so bold as to make a suggestion?"

His brow raised on its own accord. "Certainly."

"Why not just ask Mrs Darcy to dinner?"

"She's engaged."

"She's _what_?!" Valerie exclaimed. "No. I think I might have heard about _that_."

"I know what I saw," he said curtly.

She chuckled. "No one's that good at keeping secrets at this school, Mr Wallaker." She patted his upper arm reassuringly. "Just consider it."

With that, she walked away, and he wondered if she might not have a point about secret-keeping at the school.

* * *

><p><em>Weds, 11 December 2013<em>

The prep for the big night had occupied most of Scott's waking thoughts when he wasn't considering what he could do about what he was coming to think of as The Bridget Situation. He was not usually a reserved person when it came to wanting information, but the fallout of making the wrong move would have dire consequences for his relationship to one of his favourite students: Billy.

But now, here they all were, at the church, Christmas decorations of wreaths and garland in place, parents filtering in and taking their seats. He was a bit on edge, and not about the boys' performance; they'd done brilliantly in their rehearsal. No, his nervousness was from a determination that something would happen that night to resolve things one way or another. From his position in the transept, Scott had been watching the arrivals but hadn't seen Bridget enter the church yet. She would likely be late, but he didn't think she'd miss the concert for anything in the world.

Then she arrived with Mabel in tow. She looked lovely wearing a beautiful white coat (with, unfortunately, a big splodge of what looked like chocolate on the front), toting knapsacks in her free hand. She found a couple of seats quite near to the front. He realised he'd be able to see her quite clearly from his place with the boys.

He smoothed down his jacket. It was time to begin.

"Boys," he said to the quietly murmuring group, "like we rehearsed. Line up. File out."

They did as instructed; the choir went out first, then the musicians. Scott had instructed the boys to tell their mums not to wave to them as it was distracting, but from the moment Mabel saw her brother she waved, and Bridget followed suit. He shot a look to Billy, but he was too busy giggling to notice, and frankly he was unsurprised at Mabel's and Bridget's rebelliousness.

All went solemn, however, when the vicar appeared from the back of the church, striding forward to turn and deliver a blessing before the carolling was to begin.

Everyone rose to their feet, and he and the boys began singing. Spartacus had the solo, and his voice rose above all others, singing "Once in Royal David's City" as perfectly as, if not better than, he had done during rehearsal.

Scott's eyes scanned over the crowd, but inevitably his eyes fixed upon Bridget, whose eyes were brimming with tears, makeup smudged under her eyes, but was bravely singing along. Mabel was clutching her hand fiercely and looking up to her mother, concern on her small face. Scott found his own voice elude him. As strong a woman as she was, the Christmas season must have so difficult been for her; as the memories of the happier days came flooding back, she would surely be devastated all over again at what she'd lost. Just then, her gaze found his, and he smiled tenderly in understanding.

The gaze—the spell—broke as the carol ended; after a brief silence, the next carol began. Scott felt that maybe something subtle had changed there in that moment, that they had reached a new common ground, and he felt uplifted, even optimistic.

After the concert was over, the assembled crowd filed out into the churchyard, where mulled wine, hot chocolate, and roast chestnuts were being served by the senior boys. He saw Bridget and Mabel by the crackling brazier, so he got a tray of beverages—wine for the adults, chocolate for the children—and made his way towards them.

"May I pour some more of this down your coat?" he said, by way of greeting.

She turned, only looking slightly red-eyed, makeup cleared up from under her eyes, and offered a small smile in return. He set the tray down, crouched, then handed a hot cocoa towards Mabel. "This is for you, Mabel," he said.

She shook her head. "I spilt it before, on Mummy's coat, you see."

"Now Mabel," he said, meeting her wide, serious eyes, "if she had a white coat on, _without_ chocolate, would she really be Mummy?"

After a moment, she shook her head then accepted the chocolate… and then, to his great surprise, she put down the cup and threw her arms around his neck, tucked her face against him, pressed a kiss into his shirt, leaving a chocolate smudge behind.

He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat at the unexpected emotions churned by her show of affection, before he tried to speak again. "There you go," he said to Mabel. "Why don't you tip a little bit more on Mummy's coat, just for Christmas?"

He rose to his full height again, took the mulled wines in hand, pretending to slosh them towards her before handing her one. "Merry Christmas," he said, touching his cup to hers, meeting her gaze again… and despite the sound and the bustle of the people around them, their gaze remained unbroken until Billy appeared.

"Mummy! Mummy, did you see me?"

"'Tis the season to hate Billy!'" sang Mabel playfully.

"Mabel, stop it," he said, and to his surprise, she did. "Of course she saw you, Billy; she was waving at you, as she was specifically instructed _not_ to." He grabbed the fourth drink cup. "Here's your hot chocolate, Billster." He then reassuringly put his hand on Billy's shoulder. "You were great."

Billy's grinned rivalled the brilliance of noonday summer sun, and he thought very briefly about the sport-court incident, just as his eyes met Bridget's again; just, it seemed, as she thought the same.

"Mummy!" Billy interrupted again. "What did you do to your coat? Oh, look, there's Bikram! Did you bring my bag? Can I go?"

"Me too! Me too!"

Scott was quite confused. "Where?"

"Sleepover!" said Billy.

"I'm going too!" Mabel chimed in; before he could question why his sister was tagging along on a sleepover with the boys, she explained, "Havin' a sleepover. Wid Cosmata!"

"Well, that sounds like fun," he said to her. "And is Mummy having a sleepover, too?"

"No," Mabel said gravely. "She'th all on her own."

"As usual," added Billy.

"Interesting," he murmured to himself; could Valerie have been right—?

"Mr Wallaker." As if thought made manifest, it was Valerie, letting him know that a bassoon had been left in the church and couldn't stay.

"Oh God. I'm sorry," said Bridget; she'd clearly forgotten she was supposed to bring it home for the end of the term. "It's Billy's. I'll go and get it."

"I'll get it. Back in a mo'."

"No! It's okay! I'll—"

He grasped her arm firmly, refusing to allow her to refuse his help yet again. "I'll get it," he insisted.

Scott strode away, intending only to return the church, get the bassoon, and bring it to her immediately, but once he'd gone back into the church, he was waylaid about every three steps with compliments from the parents and even the vicar about the carol programme that night, and even some questions about the incident at East Finchley. He appreciated the praise and the interest, but the timing couldn't have been worse.

As he returned to the churchyard, the bassoon case under his arm, he could see her pitch the cup into a waste bin, then the glow of her white coat as she began the retreat towards the Tube station. "Hang on!" he called. She turned, as did others who remained. "It's all right!" he said to them, "I'm taking her carol singing." As he got closer to her, he said, "Shall we hit the pub?"

She nodded.

Unfortunately, a large number of the parents from the carol concert had had the same idea, and they looked upon the pair of them with curious eyes. Scott ignored them and led her to an empty booth, pulled out a chair, then set down the bassoon next to it. "Try not to lose it," he admonished playfully, then went to get them each a drink.

When he returned with wine for her and a Scotch for himself, he was accosted almost immediately by a Year 6 mother, though he was too eager to spend time with Bridget to deal with this woman gracefully.

"So," he said once she'd retreated, taking his seat at the booth again.

"So." She paused. "I just want to say thank you again for—"

"So what's with your toy boy?" he asked abruptly, the constant impatience he'd had for months catching up with him all at once. "The one I saw you with on the Heath?"

She looked unaffected, and smoothly retorted, "So what's with Miranda?"

He blinked. "Miranda? _Miranda?!_ Bridget, she's _twenty-two_! She's my brother's stepdaughter."

She looked downward, could see she was blinking too. "So… you're going out with your step-niece?"

"No!" he said vehemently, thinking back to that day outside of the Starbucks, the hairdresser's, and wondered what would make her even say that. "She bumped into me when she was shoe-shopping," he said. "You're the one who's engaged to be married to a child."

"I'm not!"

He laughed in his relief—Valerie _had_ been right. "You are!" he teased.

"I'm not!"

"So stop squabbling, and dish," he said.

So she told him all about the man she called Roxster, Roxby McDuff; how they'd met on Twitter over shared interests and a common sense of humour. That they had seen each other for a while, most of that while without the children ever meeting him, but the age difference had been too much to sustain the relationship.

"How old was he exactly?" he asked.

"Twenty-nine," she said, almost a little sheepishly. "Well, no. He was thirty by the time—"

"Oh, well, in _that_ case—" He started to smile. "—he's practically a sugar daddy."

She sipped then set down the wine glass, then looked up to meet his eyes with her own. He felt like he was falling into the depths there. "So you've been single all this time?"

"Well," he said. "I'm not saying I've been living the life of a monk…" He swirled his drink, then leaned forward, and said in a quieter tone. "But the thing is, you see… you can't go out with someone else, can you? When you're in lo—"

"Mr Wallaker!"

He looked to his side, giving Mrs Sans Souci what must have been a glare of death. Her mouth gaped open.

"Sorry!" she said, quickly retreating.

He looked to her again, and she seemed to be staring at him with utter incredulity. After what he'd almost said…

"Okay. Enough school mums?" he asked, then added in that same quiet tone, "If I take you home, will you dance to 'Killer Queen'?"

She didn't give an answer out loud, but the small smile at the corner of her mouth spoke volumes.

They rose from the table, leaving behind unfinished drinks, and wove through the parents, evading more compliments about the carol concert. Once outside, they encountered, of all people, Valerie. She was smiling. "Have a good night, you two."

The snow was still coming down, and she was looking up at him with an unmistakable glint in her eye. He thought it might be a perfect moment to kiss her, except—

"Shit!" said Bridget. "The bassoon!"

She started to turn back for the pub, but again he stopped her. "I'll get it."

It took him no time at all to fetch the bassoon as well as another bag he recognised as hers, with, of all things, sausages. He was back out on the street within minutes. Bridget had stayed where she had been, her face upturned to the falling snow, until she turned to look at him. "Your sausages," he said, handing her the bag, but keeping the bassoon case slung over his shoulder. He drew up very close to her.

"Yes! Sausages!" she said. "Good King Wenceslas! The butcher!"

"Look," he said, pointing up. "Isn't that mistletoe?"

Not taking her eyes from his, she said, "I think you'll find it's an elm with no leaves. I mean, it probably just looks like mistletoe because of the snow and—"

"Bridget," he said, reaching to touch her face, to trace a delicate line along her cheek. "This isn't a biology lesson…" Then, he bent to touch his lips to hers, to kiss her very chastely, then again with more urgency, adding as he broke away, "…yet."

With that, he kissed her again, as he'd wanted to do for so, so long, until she broke away, gasping his name. Well, his last name, anyhow, which she seemed to do by habit.

"So sorry. Did I catch you with the bassoon?"

She chuckled. He wondered how long it would take, exactly, for her to call him 'Scott.'

They went back to his flat, found Martha there, and wasted little time shooing her out of the door. Martha got her last words in, however, directed at Bridget with a smile: "You take care of him. He the best, Mr Wallaker, the best man."

Bridget responded, "I know."

After she was gone, after they were alone, he almost didn't know what to say, looking at her standing there with her soiled coat, her expression of anticipation.

"Look at this coat," he said. "You're such a mess. That's why I…" He trailed off, reaching instead to unbutton the coat, slip it from her shoulders. "That's partly why…" he continued, taking her into his arms, placing his hands on her back, tugging down the zip, looking into her glossy eyes, feeling tears well in his own. "I fell in… I fell in…"

He took in a deep breath, cupped the back of her head with a hand to lay her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm going to kiss away all your tears," he said. "All your tears… after I've finished with you."


	7. Chapter 7

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 7<strong>

* * *

><p><em>Thurs, 12 December 2013<em>

Scott woke not three hours after they'd finally gone to sleep for good, and felt unexpectedly refreshed, body and soul. He looked to where she still slept beside him, in front of the embers of the fireplace, and could not help thinking of how the night had unfolded; it combined the hot white flame of requited desire with the cosy comfort of someone he'd known and been around all his life. The image of her dressed in that sexy black slip would stay with him forever, as would the feeling of peace as he'd finally confessed to another living soul, to _her_, about the tragedy and the aftermath of the accidental attack in Afghanistan that had decisively caused him to leave the service. She had listened intently, had asked questions out of a gentle curiosity; she'd seemed to understand and sympathise with the pain it had caused him, and had offered only comfort in return, not judgment, not scorn.

He had also told her how he'd just wanted to come back to London, have a quiet life. How teaching the children had been just the thing, until he had gotten disillusioned by the competitive likes of Mrs Martinez. But then that day in the park, the children trapped in the tree, had shown him her true colours, beautiful shining colours, and that life could be enjoyable, if not fun again.

She had asked him if he liked his life now. He could only reiterate, with a peppering of kisses on her skin, that he absolutely, positively did. Especially the cuddling.

He rose and stretched, went over to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee before putting the rest of the soup Martha had left into a storage container then into the fridge; he figured if it was still edible at five in the morning, it was still okay now.

He also set about making some breakfast; between pouring pancakes on the griddle, he located and folded her discarded clothing in the hopes of salvaging them somewhat from the wrinkled ravages of the floor for her journey home.

As he finished he heard her rouse and wake with a start.

"Are you okay?" he called, switching off the hob, walking towards where he'd left her.

"Oh, yes, just fine," she said; as he approached, she was getting to her feet. "For a moment there… I forgot where I was and why Mabel hadn't wakened me yet. Oh, God."

"What is it?"

"I'm, er—" She blushed. "A bit sore."

"We're neither of us used to sleeping on the…" He trailed off as she shook her head.

"Not sore from that," she said sheepishly. "Have you got, I don't know, a robe?"

"Why?"

"To cover up."

Again he asked, "Why?"

She blushed again. "Because I'm… chilled."

"Nonsense," he said. "It's plenty warm in here. Thermostat reads… almost twenty-five. The fire didn't go out that long ago."

She pursed her lips but did not object further, simply sat down again.

Scott said, "I made coffee. Pancakes. Shall I bring you some?"

She nodded, and when he did, she smiled. "And none of it burnt. What a delight. Thank you."

"After we're done…" he said, spearing pancake with a fork, then looked towards the back of the flat. "Shower?"

"Yes, but oh God, it must be a quick one. I'm already going to be late picking up Billy and Mabel."

"Ah."

"What do you mean by 'Ah'?"

"What they'll think of… you and me."

A smile found her features. "Billy adores you. Mabel gave you a spontaneous hug and a chocolaty kiss. I wouldn't worry."

He did worry, a little, as he never wanted them to think he was ever trying to replace their father.

"I do wonder…" she began, then stopped.

"Wonder about what, Bridget?"

"About your sons. What they'll think of me. I don't even know their names."

"They're Matt and Fred," he said with a smile.

"Oh." She sipped her coffee, then drew it away quickly again to continue talking, an urgency in her voice, an eagerness to know more about them. "I mean, what do they _like_? What are their hobbies? How _old_ are they?"

"I suppose they like what many boys their age like: football, music, Xbox, and they're a little older than Billy, twelve and ten. No, eleven. Fred's just had a birthday."

"Oh, Xbox," she said. "Which games do they like?"

"I… can't remember. Whatever it is that boys like to play, I'd guess." He reached and placed a hand on hers. "I think they're going to like you—_and_ Billy, _and_ Mabel—just fine."

"I just don't want to be thought of as the wicked stepmother," she asked, real worry on her face.

"No chance of that," he said, fully aware of what she was saying less than a day after they'd gotten together.

When they finished their food he pulled her to her feet, took her by the hand and led her into the shower, where, mindful of the time, he took care to wash her thoroughly and otherwise leave her with a smile on her lips for the rest of the day.

"So what about you?" he asked as he zipped up her dress; he had slipped into some clean trackie bottoms, sat shirtless on the bed.

"What about me, what?" she asked, turning to look over her shoulder.

"I… you had a rough time there, I know," he said, trying not to be indelicate. "But I wonder, do you like your life now?"

She turned to face forward; he had the disadvantage of not seeing her face. But then he could tell from the way her profile changed that she was smiling. "Yes, Mr Wallaker, I think that I do."

He put his hands upon her waist. "Stop calling me Mr Wallaker," he chided gently.

She laughed, stepped away, smiled at him. "Since I don't have time to be Cautioned right now," she said, echoing his words of the night before, "as much as I'd like it, I suppose I'll have to concede for now… Scott."

She pulled on the chocolaty coat as she instructed him to pitch the sausages that had never made it into the refrigerator; he was sad she had to go, though of course knew and understood that she had obligations to her children.

"There is also the matter of the bassoon," he said in a mock-serious tone as she buttoned the coat; he stood leaning against the door jamb, arms folded across his chest.

"Oh, right, the bloody bassoon," she said. Then she grinned. "Perhaps you could drop it by."

"Perhaps I could," he said.

"But not tonight."

"Say the word, and bam, bassoon delivery." Then he pushed himself forward, took her face in his hands, and dropped a kiss onto her lips. "I love you," he said, simply and unequivocally.

He saw her eyes go glossy again, but she said in a strong voice, "That might shock me more after only a day if I didn't love you too."

* * *

><p><em>Sun, 14 December 2013<em>

Despite the fact that school was over for the term, since so many people had seen them together at the carol concert—then leave together—Scott and Bridget decided it would be best to bring the children in on the nascent relationship sooner rather than later, before they found out from a classmate. Scott was pleased, in a way, that she agreed so readily to have this conversation with them already, when he considered how long she had waited to introduce the children to Roxster.

So it was decided that he would come over for lunch on Saturday, they would talk to the children, and if all went well, he could stay overnight. It was no exaggeration to say that Scott was more nervous than he'd been even the night of the carol concert. If it didn't go well with them…

He tried not to think about that.

Billy and Mabel were quite stunned not just to see a teacher outside of school, but coming to their own home. "Am I… in trouble?" Billy asked.

Scott smiled. "You're very much not in trouble, Billster."

"What about me?" asked Mabel.

At this, he couldn't help laughing. "You aren't, either."

"Mr Wallaker—" Bridget began, shooting him a glance. "—has come to have lunch, because we both want to talk to you about something."

Billy looked serious. "It sure feels like I'm in trouble, Mummy."

"I promise with all my heart that you aren't," she said.

The plan had been to have this talk after lunch, but the sudden pall cast over both of them, as if prepping to mount the stairs of the gallows, seemed to necessitate a change in that plan. Scott looked to her, saw the nod as if agreeing with his thoughts, then he began to speak. "What your mum is trying to say is… what we wanted to let you know is…" Scott suddenly couldn't find the words.

Bridget saved him. "Mr Wallaker's going to be my boyfriend."

He thought he saw a smile on Billy's lips. Mabel, however, was thoroughly confused.

"What's dat?" Mabel asked.

He heard Bridget laugh lightly. "Well," she said. "It means that he'll come over here to visit outside of school a lot, maybe even help with dinner…"

"Maybe take Mummy _out_ for dinner," Scott added, "or to the pictures."

Mabel looked scandalised, her little mouth dropping open. "You'd take Mummy _without us_?"

"We could all do a lot stuff together," Scott said. "But sometimes, adults want time to themselves."

Mabel clearly gave this a lot of thought, her features screwed up in concentration, until she started to smile a little. The extra consideration that Billy gave to the matter, however, soured his expression, and he said, "Couldn't you have time to yourself _after_ our bedtime?"

Scott looked to Bridget who, he swore, was fighting a laugh. "Well, yes, that will happen too, I'm sure," she said, "but not everything can be done in the evenings after eight-thirty." Then her expression sobered before she offered a tender smile. "I'll be here to tuck you in just as always."

"Except if you go out to dinner or the pictures," Billy said. He was frowning now. "It's not fair. Mr Wallaker's supposed to be _my_ teacher at _school_."

"But you like Mr Wallaker, don't you?" Bridget asked.

Billy looked extraordinarily conflicted, which transformed into frustration. Without answering, Billy dashed out of the room and up the stairs, presumably up to his bedroom.

"That," said Scott Wallaker, "did not go as smoothly as I would have liked."

Bridget stood there looking stunned.

At that moment Mabel said, "_I_ like you, Mr Wolkda." With that, she stepped forward, wrapped her arm around his legs and hugged him as best she could.

Scott reached down and placed his hand tenderly upon her small head. "That makes me very happy, Mabel," he said, "because I like you, too."

"I know Billy likes you," said Bridget, exasperatedly. "I can't believe he—"

"Oh, I can," said Scott. And he could. And as she stood there, he could see her features change with the realisation of why Billy had behaved as he had. Billy was used to having his mother more or less to himself. Scott wasn't sure, but he suspected Bridget had presented Roxster to the children as more a friend, if anything, so Billy had no experience with his mother being anything but a single woman. Billy was also used to his teacher being an authority figure on whom he could depend at school, and the prospect of sharing him with his mother and with his sister in his own home might have suddenly been too much to bear. He might feel like he was being forgotten. Like he was losing something. He needed to know he was not losing anything at all.

"Why don't I go and—" Bridget began.

"No," he said, holding up a hand. "I think this is something he might need to hear from me."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

She sighed. "I just can't bear thinking of him upset over this," said Bridget.

"It'll be okay," he said with far more confidence than he felt. "If you'll just peel Mabel off of my legs…"

She smiled, nodded, and drew Mabel away.

Scott ascended the stairs, got to the children's bedroom. The door was closed, so he knocked. "Billy, may I come in?" Scott asked.

Silence, then, "I don't know."

Billy didn't shout at him to go away, which he took to be a good sign, so Scott slowly pushed the door open slowly to see Billy sitting on Mabel's bed, looking glum. "So, Billster," he said, trying to sit beside him without bumping his head on the upper bunk, "seems like you're upset about me spending time with your mum. I'm sorry about that. Never meant to upset you."

Billy didn't say anything in response.

"You know I'm awfully fond of you and your sister."

"I know," Billy said.

"And you know your mum isn't going to love you any less."

Billy didn't respond right away. "Yeah," he said at last.

"You don't sound like you believe it," he said. "You know your mum would do anything for you or your sister. Just like the song, right?"

The corner of Billy's mouth twitched in a smile. "Yeah."

"She loves you so very, _very_ much," he reiterated, "but sometimes she… well, sometimes grownups need other grownups. Like…" He struggled for an example. "…how Finn's mum and dad need each other."

"He's never even home," said Billy.

"That doesn't mean they don't still need each other. I bet when he gets home, she's really happy to see him."

"Yeah," said Billy. "I guess."

"Having someone in her life she needs like that does not diminish her love for you or Mabel one single bit," he said.

Billy looked very thoughtful again, maybe even a little sad, then he turned to look directly at Scott. "Jake goes away to play music. My daddy's in Heaven."

Scott realised in that moment he might have made a misstep in mentioning Jake. "I know, and I'm really sorry about that," he said; he moved to place a hand on Billy's shoulder, but then thought he'd better not. "Actually, you make an excellent point. Nothing could ever take away how much you still love and miss him, right? Not even when you make new friends? Or when I showed you how to do the long jump?"

Billy nodded.

"The very same feeling is true for your mum… even when she decided she wanted me to be more than just a teacher at your school." He took in a deep breath. "And your daddy… I would never want you to love or miss him less," he said tenderly, not moving his eyes away from Billy's. "I would _never_ want to take his place. He will _always_ be your daddy. But since he's not here, and I am… I think it might just be okay if you liked me, too, or if maybe I do for you some of the things a daddy might do." He smiled.

An unexpected voice interrupted their discussion. Bridget's. "You know, Billy," she said tenderly, "I think Daddy would be glad that Mr Wallaker's here, since Daddy… can't be." He looked to her, standing in the doorway with Mabel at her side; Bridget's eyes were glossy but she had a smile on her face.

Then two things happened:

As quick as lightning, Billy leaned forward and threw his arms around Scott, catching him unawares, and he started to blubber with tears a little; Scott took the boy into his embrace, to pat his back reassuringly.

Then Mabel spoke. "Hey, Billy, dat's my bed."

It was just the right thing at that moment to lighten the mood and one by one, they all started to laugh. Bridget took a seat beside Billy and hugged him (and Scott). Mabel jumped up onto Scott's lap. "I wanna hug Billy, too," she said petulantly.

"You never did like being left out," Bridget said, leaning forward to kiss the fine hair at the top of her head. Then, looking up to meet Scott's eyes, she leaned further and gave him a peck on the lips.

"I told you it'd be okay," murmured Scott.

* * *

><p><em>Weds, 18 December 2013<em>

There was really no putting off asking her any longer.

Scott was due to drive out to pick up his boys from school when their winter break began, and with the amount of time he was spending with Bridget, they were bound to notice his changed (happy) demeanour. The week since they'd acknowledged their feelings, since they had gotten together, had been wonderful beyond his imagining; after smoothing everything out with Billy, Scott had stayed over at the Chalk Farm house more often than not. He felt like they were already a little family.

Something about the prospect of telling his boys about Bridget made him a bit nervous, though. It was irrational, he knew; it was not as if she didn't know he had children. Maybe it was more to do with how the boys might react. If Matt and Fred never met her, they'd never decide they didn't like her. This was, of course, a ridiculous notion; he wouldn't want his boys not to meet her or know her. He knew they would benefit from her presence in their lives, and he was very confident in how positively they would react, so he had no idea why he was feeling this way.

"What's on your mind?"

This quiet voice in the dim of the amber-lit room, her warm breath skating along his skin… it rather amazed him how one short week had changed everything so much, how she could already sense when something was troubling him.

He looked down to where she rested against him to find she was looking up at him. In that instance, his nervousness slipped away. "It's about my boys."

"Are they all right?"

"Oh, they're fine," he said. "They'll be home for the Christmas holiday soon. I go and get them Friday."

"Oh, how lovely," she said.

"I want you to meet them," he said. "As soon as possible, if that's all—"

"Yes, oh yes, of _course_! I'd love to!" she interrupted with a bright expression. It didn't take long, though, for her smile to fade. "But what if they _don't_ like me? It was so easy to tell Billy and Mabel—they know and like you already. I mean, aside from the little hiccup with Billy—"

"Shhh," he said. "You're rambling, Bridget. I already told you it'll be fine."

"I'm _not_ rambling," she said, rather too defensively. "I just don't want them to think I'm some kind of evil witch nightmare Baroness von Schrader."

At this he laughed out loud, hugging her tight—he was a great convert to cuddling and to _The Sound of Music_—and could only think with even more conviction that they would adore her. How could they not?

"It's not funny," she said; he could hear the pout in her voice.

"You'll think it's funny," he murmured, "when you meet them and you realise how unfounded your fears really are."

They decided then that Bridget would see if her mother could take Billy and Mabel for at least part of the weekend. "I'll get the boys," he said, "and we can all have dinner together that night."

She agreed it was a good idea and kissed him; they then helped each other to take their minds off of their respective worries. It was just another way in which they were eminently compatible.

* * *

><p><em>Fri, 20 December 2013<em>

"Dad, something wrong? You're really quiet."

In the course of mentally debating exactly what to tell Matt and Fred what awaited them that evening, he realised he hadn't said anything at all to the boys in the ten minutes since they'd begun the drive home. With the traffic being what it was, it seemed silly not to say something now.

"Nothing's wrong at all," Scott said. "Quite the opposite." He glanced into the rear-view mirror. "We're having company for dinner tonight."

"Oh really?" asked Fred.

Then Matt asked, "What, have you got a girlfriend?"

The question was obviously meant as a joke, but when Scott didn't deny it as they clearly expected him to have done, they started asking questions.

"Really?"

"Who is she?"

"What's her name?"

"Is she pretty?"

"Do we have to wear a suit tonight?"

That last one caught Scott off guard. "What?"

"You know, best behaviour at some posh restaurant," said Matt in an exaggerated hoity-toity voice.

"We're having dinner at home," he said. "Martha's cooking. She'll meet us at the flat. Bridget will, I mean. That's her name." He smiled a little. "And yes, she's very pretty. I do hope you'll like her."

When they arrived to the flat, after a warm hello to Martha, the boys immediately took their bags back to their room, then spent a little time in front of a mirror, combing their hair, washing up, and generally making sure their appearance was impeccable. With dinner prep complete, Martha got her things together, said her goodbyes to the boys then to Scott, adding, "Have a wonderful night. I'm sure it'll go so well."

Just then the bell for the door went off, so Scott went to buzz her into the building, then let her in when she rapped at the flat door. Bridget set down the carrier bag she'd brought with her, gave him a quick kiss before shedding her coat, all the while looking nervously around herself like the boys might pounce upon her from behind the sofa.

"Hello and good night, Bridget," Martha said, slipping into her own coat; she'd tried calling her 'Ms Bridget' before, but Bridget would have none of it. "Have a wonderful time."

"I hope to," said Bridget.

When Martha had gone, Scott was finally able to appreciate how stunning Bridget was in a navy silk dress, flattering to her figure and swishing about her as she moved. "Where are they?" she asked in a whisper.

"They're preening," he said. Her hair was down, and he took advantage of the opportunity to affectionately comb it back over her ears with his fingers. "Shall I call for them?"

She nodded. "No time like the present."

He turned his head, inadvertently invoking his schoolyard voice: "Matt! Fred!"

There was a slight scramble from the back of the flat, then one at a time, Matt—taller, more confident—and Fred—hiding a bit behind his brother—came out to meet Bridget. "This is Matt, and this is Fred," he said to Bridget. To his sons, he said, "Boys, this is…" He paused. They hadn't really discussed together how they should address her. In the end, he decided on, "Mrs Darcy."

Matt looked confused. "She's married?"

"No," said Bridget with a kind smile. "I'm not. And I'd like it if you just called me 'Bridget'."

They nodded. "Okay," they said in unison.

Fred's gaze moved towards the door, landing on the bag she'd brought. "What's that?"

"What's—oh, the bag?" She laughed lightly. "I brought dessert. Chocolate cake. I would have baked one, but I thought it might be bad form to poison everyone our first time meeting."

The boys looked oddly stunned; they looked to one another, then to their father. He realised why.

"Boys," Scott said, "she's joking."

"What?" said Bridget in surprise as she turned pink. "Oh my _God_, of course I'm joking."

The two boys shared a quick, incredulous look—not surprising, as their mother had very little in the way of a sense of humour—then at last they began to giggle.

"It's really nice to meet you," Bridget added.

Scott could tell she was feeling self-conscious, so he spoke up. "Why don't we sit down and eat? Dinner's ready."

"Sounds great," she said with a smile. "Show me the way."

Scott took the bag she'd brought, set the cake box within it on the counter, as Matt showed her where the dining table was. Scott normally kept the leaf out of it, kept it to four seats, so it was a bit smaller, more intimate, with the boys there; Matt and Fred each took a seat to one side of her, putting her across the table from Scott.

"Wine?" he called to Bridget.

"Oh, God, yes _please_," she said.

He pulled the pan of lasagne out of the oven, where Martha had left it to stay warm, then drew down a pair of wineglasses and got the white wine from the refrigerator. First he brought the wine glasses over, then the boys' fizzing soft drinks, before he cut the pan of lasagne and served up two plates at a time.

"Thanks, Dad," they said, practically simultaneously.

As he sat, he noticed Bridget looking a bit wistful, but only for a moment before she snapped out of it and offered a smile. "Thanks," she said. "This looks delicious."

"Martha's a really great cook," said Scott. "Isn't she, boys?"

They nodded, but kept mostly silent as they ate.

"This _is_ delicious," said Bridget, then picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. She looked thoughtful. If Scott had to guess, she found the silence as uncomfortable as he did, perhaps even more so. "So, Matt, Fred," she said at last, loading her fork with more lasagne, "I hear you are very fond of your Xbox. What's you're favourite game?"

Once again the boys looked surprised. "Do you like the Xbox?" Matt asked.

"I've tried it a bit, but I'm not very good," she confessed. "My son, Billy, now he's a whiz. He can kill my guy in the game in about thirty seconds flat."

"You have a kid?" Matt asked, his eyes growing wide. "How old is he?"

"_Two_ kids," she said. "Billy's a bit younger than you—he's seven. And I have Mabel, who's five."

"Mabel's a girl's name," said Fred, confused.

"That's because Mabel's a girl," she said with a smile.

Matt laughed and poked his brother under the table with a toe; Fred reacted with a sharp, "Hey!"

"Now, come on, none of that," said Bridget. "You don't have a sister, so why wouldn't you think… oh, do you have any little girl cousins?"

They both shook their heads.

"Oh," she said. "Well, Mabel will probably be disappointed to hear that."

"Is she pretty like you?" asked Fred.

Scott saw a faint tint of pink wash over her cheeks. "Sort of a loaded question, but thank you," she said. "I do think she's quite cute, but I'm a little biased, being her mum and all."

"So why didn't they come to dinner?" asked Fred.

"Are they with their dad?" Matt added.

Scott felt his stomach drop out. The boys were well familiar with divorce. Of course they didn't think of other possibilities; maybe he should have explained the situation more beforehand. He looked to Bridget; fortunately, she didn't look too troubled by the question, but he knew that sometimes the pain didn't easily show. "Boys," he said, "it's something she doesn't like to talk about."

"No, it's okay," she said, setting down her fork, reaching to place a hand on each of their forearms. "Mr Darcy, their father… he died."

They looked a bit confused; in their experience, old people—grannies and grandpas—died, not dads to five-year-olds.

"It was an accident," she said, which he supposed was the best way to describe it to them. "And it's okay if you didn't know. I mean, it isn't like you're psychic, right? How could you have?"

Fred cracked a small smile.

"So Billy and Mabel are with my mum today. I wanted to meet you both on my own, first. You can meet them soon, if you… if you'd like that."

"Yeah, he could play Xbox with us," said Matt.

"Does Mabel play Xbox?" wondered Fred.

"Or football. Does he like football? We play football in the summer with our cousins—"

With that, the boys and Bridget began a steady stream of conversation that continued during dinner and well into dessert. She even agreed to try a bit of the Xbox game, and though she wasn't very good at it, he and the boys could tell she was having fun trying. She mimicked the voices from the game, too, with funny impersonations that made the boys laugh like madmen. Scott couldn't help noticing how quickly they had warmed to her during dinner, and especially while playing the Xbox.

When the game ended, she set the controller down with a sigh. "I told you I was crap. Oh." She brought her hand to her mouth as the boys giggled again. "Sorry."

Scott said with a grin, "I think it's okay to say 'crap'."

"Since when?" piped up Matt.

"It's okay for _adults_ to say 'crap'," Scott amended.

"Well, _that_ hardly seems fair," said Bridget, smirking.

He caught Fred stifling a yawn, bringing Scott's attention to the time. It was now well past their bedtime. He said, "Xbox and 'crap' is all well and good, but it's bedtime for you two. Come on. Time to get washed up."

Predictably, they groaned.

"Say goodnight to Bridget, then off you go."

"G'night, Bridget," said Matt. "It was nice to meet you."

"It was very nice to meet you too."

Fred simply stood there, staring up at her, before surprising everyone by launching forward and giving Bridget a big hug. "I'm glad you're Dad's girlfriend," came his muffled voice from where his face was buried against her arm.

Bridget looked to Scott, stunned. "Thank you," she said. "I'm pretty glad about it, too."

"Will we see you tomorrow? Will we meet Billy and Mabel?" asked Matt.

"I wanna meet Billy and Mabel," said Fred, stepping back.

"I guess that all depends on when they're back from their grandmother's," said Bridget, looking to Scott, "but I'm game if your father is."

"I'm game."

"Maybe you could… come over to our house."

"I like the sound of that," said Scott.

After Matt and Fred retreated, Bridget quietly said, "Will their mother be all right with that?"

"With what, exactly?"

"Well, first of all, is she okay with them meeting me," Bridget explained, "and will making plans for tomorrow with Billy and Mabel throw a wrench into their seeing her?"

"To answer your questions in order: I didn't ask, and they're not seeing her," he said.

"You didn't ask?"

"She doesn't run every boyfriend she has by me, and I have much better judgment than she does," he said wryly.

Bridget continued, "And what do you mean they're not seeing her?"

"I mean they'll see her, I'm sure, if she's not off on some holiday."

"But it's Christmas break."

Only then did he piece together what she was really asking. "They're not going to their mother's place for the term break. They're staying here."

"Oh," she said; her surprise quickly turned to consternation. "So she may not even be around for Christmas? That's awful!"

He smiled, then drew her into his arms. "She showed up drunk to Sports Day," he said. "In case you hadn't noticed, she is not exactly Mum of the Year."

"It just seems unnatural and wrong, that's all. Oh, and speaking of Mum of the Year…" She drew away and went for her handbag. "Need to ring up Mum, see how they're doing."

"I'll go make sure they're in bed and not goofing off while you do."

He slipped the boys' door open to see them dressed in their pyjamas and pulling back their duvets. Matt climbed in, pulled the covers up. "Just checking in," he said. "Making sure you're actually getting ready for bed."

"We are," said Fred.

"Good." He sat down on the end of Matt's bed as Fred burrowed under his own covers, then turned over to look at his father. "Going to ask you a question," he said, "and I want you both to be honest. What do you think of Bridget?"

"Is she for real your girlfriend?"

This question astonished him. "What do you mean?"

"Well, she's so… not like Sarah."

"Do you _like_ Bridget, though?"

They both nodded vehemently. "Totally."

"And you're not just saying that because you think it's something I want to hear," he said.

"No way," said Matt, as Fred nodded in agreement with his brother. "She doesn't talk to us like we're idiots."

It was true; she didn't. She didn't even talk to her own children that way. "Well. All right then. Good night." He stood, kissed each one on the head, turned off the light, then shut the door behind himself.

"Dad!"

Fred's voice. He went back in. "Yes?"

He had the duvet up to his nose. "Will you put on the night light?"

"Sure thing, Fredster."

When he joined Bridget again she was packing the rest of the cake back into its box. "Thought I might negotiate space in the fridge for it," she said. "It'll make a great breakfast."

He chuckled. "How are Billy and Mabel?"

"They were sound asleep when I called. Mum said they'd been angels. That they wanted to know how you were and to tell her to say hi." She pouted a little. "And my mum wants to know _who_ you are."

"You hadn't told her?"

"It hadn't really… come up."

"But you told me you told your friends," he said. "We're all having drinks tomorrow night, unless you've forgotten."

She pursed her lips, then explained the long and difficult relationship she and her mother had always had, how they had only recently hammered things out and come to a more adult understanding. "My friends weren't insane about this sort of thing, and she was. It's habit not to tell her," Bridget explained. "She used to be so critical of every man I tried to see, tried to fix me up with so many unsuitable men…" She smiled, though it was a wistful one. "She did succeed once." Then she looked to him. "She'll want to meet you for Christmas."

"I would love to meet her," he said, bringing her into a hug. "I would love, actually, to spend the whole holiday with you. In fact, you, Mabel, Billy, and even your Mum if she wants, up at Capthorpe House. You can meet my brother, his boys, his wife."

"That's a bit sudden," she joked.

"Isn't it all?"

"I suppose it is," she said.

"But when it's right, it's right," he added.

"And you know, if Sarah is around, she should come too," she said. "No one should be alone on Christmas."

"You're lovely," he said, "but honestly, I'd rather she didn't."

Then he kissed her, because she was kind, she was generous, and he loved her. She encapsulated the simple life he had wanted… even if she were anything but a simple woman.


	8. Chapter 8

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8<strong>

_Fri, 20 December 2013 (con't)_

"I'm worried about Mabel and all of those boys," confided Scott, later that night.

She laughed. "Don't worry for Mabel," she said. "Worry for the boys. She'll have them all playing Hellvanians with her in no time at all, pint-sized dictator that she is."

Bridget had not been wrong. The children got along right from the start. Billy adored having some slightly older and more knowledgeable boys around; Fred loved having someone he could treat like a younger brother; Matt liked thinking of himself as an older brother twice over; both of his sons were intrigued by the thought of having a younger sister, even if a girl child was a bit of an unknown. And she did have his sons wrapped around her finger from the start, assigning a family of field mice to Fred, and "fuckoons" (raccoons) to Matt.

"The bunnieth are mine," she said decidedly. "And Billy can have the duckth if he wants to play."

Billy looked quite torn for a moment; he apparently had never really liked playing with the Sylvanians with his sister, but if Matt and Fred were going to play… "Okay," he said, giving her a big grin.

Afterwards, they invited Mabel to play Xbox, but she didn't want to; instead, she went and perched on her mother's knee. "Mummy," she said quite seriously, "I like havin' more brudders, but how about a sister now?"

"Oh, honey, the ship has quite sailed on that one," she said, holding her little girl close, kissing her on the head. "But I think you'll find that having three times the brother will more than make up for it."

"I s'pose," she said with a sigh. "They don't have hair for plaits, though."

"You have a point," said Bridget, "but you know, if you had a sister, you'd have to share the Hellvanians with her."

Mabel looked horrified, then she jumped down and ran over to the Xbox. "I wanna play!"

* * *

><p><em>Mon-Tues, 23-24 December 2013<em>

Getting extra presents for Billy and Mabel—and Bridget, of course—meant that the days before Christmas had been extra hectic, but given the time crunch, he thought he did all right: a Sylvanian Barn Owl Family for Mabel and a new Xbox game for Billy. For Bridget, he hadn't even had to go to a shop; he immediately thought of his mother's favourite necklace, an antique locket; it was one Sarah had once begged to have, and one he'd never thought had been right to give her.

He would leave the photos up to her. He didn't wish to presume to put in pictures of his children with hers, or even of himself; while they had come so far, so fast, they hadn't even been a couple a month. It had barely been a fortnight.

The six of them arrived to Capthorpe House on Monday, the 23rd, to give them time to settle in before the holiday itself. Bridget's mother, Pam, had already planned on a holiday with her friend Una and the retirement community in which they lived, though Scott had had a very pleasant chat with Pam on the telephone; Bridget reported back that afterwards, her mother was more giggly and girlish than she had been in years.

Sean, Cassandra and the boys had arrived earlier that same day. Introductions between the children—to integrate Mabel and Billy with Jeff, George, and Arthur—were made by Matt and Fred in the manner of a UN delegation. In the end, there was nothing to fret over; before long, they were going on scavenger hunts in teams of three and four (Mabel wanted to stay with Billy), looking for items around the house based on lists that Sean and Scott compiled for them. Mabel soon became known as the good luck charm.

The next morning, Christmas Eve day, Scott found himself practically cornered in the kitchen by his brother as he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. "Finally have you alone," Sean said. "Wanted to say, well done, you."

Scott chuckled. "Thanks."

"I know who she was," he said, "but if I'm to be honest, despite everything, I was really quite terrified she was going to be a Sarah clone."

"You sound like my boys," he said with a grin.

"She brings out the best in you, being so warm and spontaneous," said Sean. "And the kids love her. Maybe she missed her calling as a teacher."

"I'm glad you approve," he said. "I hope Cassandra does, too, what with me springing them on all of you at the last minute."

"It really wasn't a bother," said Sean, "and yes, Cassandra finds Bridget quite likeable. She's looking forward to getting to know her better."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"She especially adores that Mabel. What a charmer. Really, it's so nice to have a little girl around again after so many boys. Been a long time since Miranda was small."

Scott thought of his niece, who would be up for Christmas proper, and grinned.

Sean continued, "And now. If I don't bring up some coffee soon…"

"Ditto," said Scott.

Later that afternoon, Scott overheard Billy talking to Arthur, the cousin who was closest to him in age:

"We played our Summer Concert here," Billy said, as the pair of boys stood looking out through the French windows. "There was a stage over there." He pointed to the terrace. "It's _really_ different with all the snow."

"Maybe we can go out and make snow angels!" said Arthur excitedly.

Within short order the seven children were whipped up into a frenzy about going out to play in the snow. Bridget had had the foresight to bring the children's snow gear—and her own—and within short order the lot of them were out in the garden, throwing snowballs, making snow sculptures and forming legions of snow angels.

"That," declared Billy once they were inside sipping cocoa, "was _way_ better than sledging."

Before they went to bed that night, Scott also overheard Arthur say to Billy that he thought his mum was cool.

* * *

><p><em>Christmas, 2013<em>

Christmas morning was really all about the children. With the start of a new job, last year's festivities had been very subdued, with only the boys and Sarah in his flat. This year, with the boat pushed out in the form of the decorated tree and garlanded family home, the big Christmas dinner underway, and surrounded by his brother, sister-in-law, Bridget, and so many children running around with paper crowns and noisemakers… Scott had not realised quite how much he had missed the traditional holiday celebrations.

After finishing the gift exchange and polishing off coffee and breakfast, Bridget called to her children; she had a strange expression, not hesitant, but almost somewhat sombre. "Come, let's give your granny and grandpa a Christmas call."

It took him but a moment for Scott to realise exactly whom they were calling, and knew why it might be a difficult call to make. "Maybe you can use the library for a little privacy," he said, "away from the racket of the boys playing with their new toys, complaining that they can't use the new Xbox games yet."

"Good idea, yes," she said, still looking scattered.

"Come, I'll show you, maybe… keep them occupied while you place the call." Maybe a little moral support, too, he thought, though he did not wish to intrude upon a private conversation with her mother-in-law.

She nodded. "I'd really like that," she said.

To keep them occupied, he asked Mabel and Billy if they were having a nice holiday break so far, kept them engaged in conversation about Father Christmas, but kept his attention focused on Bridget too, listening for cues in her half of the conversation: "Happy Christmas," she said. "Yes, thinking of you too. Having a good Christmas? Oh, really? You're all on the same holiday? Oh, then maybe Mum mentioned…. Yes. I wasn't sure how to…" Here he could hear emotion thickening her voice. "Yes, very happy. Thank you. I think you'd like him." Pause. "And I think he'd like him, too."

She then cleared her throat, and when she spoke again her voice was clearer and brighter: "So Billy and Mabel want to say hello and happy Christmas." He recognised a cue when he heard one, and he herded the children towards them. Billy took the phone first.

"Hi, Granny Elaine!" he said brightly. "Yeah, we're out at Mr Wallaker's house, and it's snowing and there's kids to play with here an' everything!"

Scott looked to Bridget, who was discreetly daubing tears from under her eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly.

She nodded. "I know Mark's parents want me to be happy," she said. "It was still hard, the thought of telling them."

He reached out, took her hand, then pulled her into his arms for a warm hug. "Like you said. They want you to be happy." He brought his hand up to her hair. "I know you must miss him still, especially at Christmas. That's okay. I'd never begrudge you your memories, or try to unseat him from his place in your heart."

At this she began sobbing. Billy and Mabel looked to them in confusion; he merely gestured that it was time to give Mabel the mobile. "Hi, it's Mabel!" she said happily upon taking it. "Thaliva got a new dress!"

"Mostly, I'm fine," Bridget said in a quiet tone. "Then, every once in a while…"

"It's okay," he said again.

"Not as bad as it used to be," she said, tightening her arms around him. "That felt like a wave against my shins compared to the tsunamis that used to hit me." She sniffed. "I'm so glad you understand."

He wasn't sure he could fully understand; after all, he had never lost a love as she had, had never even had a love like that before meeting her. In fact, he couldn't help the small pang of jealousy at seeing her so affected by the memory of her husband; he supposed he should have felt more threatened that he could never have the whole of her heart. After all, he was only human. But her understandably strong attachments to the past, to the father of her children, didn't make him doubt what she felt for him; he had never felt so loved before, so absolutely, in so short a time. He accepted that it was part and parcel of loving her.

"Mummeeeee, Granny Pam wants to talk to you!"

It was Billy again—they must have said their piece to both paternal grandparents, and to Pam Jones as well, and Mabel had vacated the room—so she drew away, sniffed again, swept at any errant tears she might have missed before, then took the mobile.

"Mr Wallaker," said Billy with a surprising amount of discretion, "is Mummy crying because of Daddy?"

He thought for a moment, then nodded. "Because it's Christmas," he said. "And she's thinking of the happy times in the past with your father. She's okay though."

Billy nodded. "I know she is," he said with great confidence. "She's got you now."

* * *

><p><em>Mon, 30 December 2013<em>

As the week at Capthorpe House wound to a close, Scott felt a bit wistful about the thought of all of them parting ways. It had been a great week with very little conflict (aside from the likes of who ate the last of the Christmas sugar biscuits), especially when he considered those family Christmases with Sarah and the frequent excess of spirits. Going back to the flat with only his own sons was going to seem far too quiet and empty.

After the first night back to the flat, with the boys tucked away in bed, Scott entered his bedroom; everything seemed all too quiet and still. He missed Bridget a lot, more than he would have expected already in so short a time.

His pocket began to vibrate, and for a moment he was baffled until he realised it was the new mobile from Bridget, one to match her own. He took it out, looked at its face, then pushed the button to answer the call. The display told him it was Bridget. Bridget had programmed her mobile into his list of contacts, and the boys (Billy included) had helped him get the rest of his contacts in. The ones he wanted to keep, anyhow.

"I'm never going to get used to this," he said by way of greeting.

She chuckled softly. "Everyone tucked in for the night?"

"Mm-hmm," he said. "Same there?"

"Yep," she said. Then she sighed. "Mabel asked where you were, why you weren't there to give her a kiss good night. Told her you needed to be at home with your own kids. She said she missed having a kiss good night." After a pause, she added, "I missed my kiss good night, too."

"I know," he said. "I was just thinking of you. How lonely it is—having a difficult time readjusting after such a lovely holiday. The boys told me they missed you, too. And Billy and Mabel…." He cleared his throat. "The boys wanted to play their new Xbox games with Billy. Maybe we could bring them over tomorrow, make a day of it?"

"Sure, but… you're just back. Aren't the boys going to be seeing their mother?"

He thought back to the phone call they'd had with her, when she had finally called two days too late (and far too late in the day) to wish them a happy holiday. The boys as always took it in stride. "Remember, she's not back until New Years Day," he reminded. "To be honest, while they love their mother, they're a bit relieved about not having to preen for lunch at an overpriced restaurant."

"Okay, then," she said. "We can get pizzas and ice cream and…"

"That doesn't sound very healthy," he said in a mock-teasing voice.

"You're not a sport teacher right now," she teased back.

"In that case," he said, "I'll bring the Coke."

In the morning, at breakfast, he decided to have a little fun at his boys' expense.

"By the way," he said between bites of toast, "don't think for a moment that I have forgotten about your homework assignments." They made noises of protest, subdued groans at the reminder of their responsibilities in another week. "I know, I know, I'm practically a dictator," he continued. "However, since your break's supposed to be a break… I think it's all right to have a little fun first."

When he told the boys over breakfast that they'd be going to Bridget's to play Xbox with Billy, they couldn't get through their meal fast enough to get their favourite games together to prepare to go. He chuckled and said, "Well, I was thinking after lunch, boys. Calm down. You still have a few chores to take care of from last night. Unpack your bags from the holiday, sort out your laundry for Martha."

In unison they sighed like prospective martyrs, but complied.

As they took care of their tasks, his new mobile vibrated; however, this time it was not a call. It appeared to be a text message, and it was from Bridget.

_Billy & Mabel bouncing off walls at news of visit. When will you & boys be here?_

He grinned then typed a laboriously slow response: _Have boys doing laundry chores. Don't want them getting too spoilt._

_Taskmaster! :D OK, just ping when you leave_, she replied. _Will see you then. Xx_

After a moment, he saw that she was typing again before a new message popped up: _BTW, you should get faster with practise. Texting, I mean. Other areas have no reason to speed up._

He suspected that she was being obliquely naughty, and could only smile in amusement. There was something quite thrilling about communicating this way. He responded, _Practise makes perfect._

_Will hold you to that. Xx Bye xx_

By the time the boys were finished with their tasks, Scott was the one chomping at the bit to go, so he verified they had the things they wanted to bring before popping a quick text to Bridget—_Ping_ was all it said—then they all headed out for her house in Chalk Farm.

"But first," said Scott, "I promised to bring refreshments. Coke."

Matt and Fred were obviously pleased, but also looked a bit concerned, and he asked them why. "You never let us drink Coke before," explained Matt.

Fred grinned. "I like Bridget."

"Yeah," said Matt. "Face it, Dad, you're sunk in love." This was said with an air of approval, and for that Scott was very glad.

* * *

><p><em>Tues, 31 December 2013<em>

After a day of Coke, pizza, crisps and chocolate, the Xbox and the old Monopoly game dragged out of the game cupboard, one thing became very clear to Scott: with his boys now in a dead sleep from the exhaustion and the excitement of the day (alongside Billy and Mabel, practically a pile of children, blankets, and pillows in front of the television), it seemed unlikely they would be returning to the flat for the night.

"I don't mind if they stay over," said Bridget, then amended, "If you _all_ stay over."

He grinned, then nodded. "Very kind of you to remember to add me to the invitation."

With a smile playing upon her lips, she reached and playfully tapped his upper arm with her knuckles. Quietly they crept upstairs to wash up for bed, then without words returned to where the children were in order to camp out on the sofa; it seemed logical, reasonable to be close to the children and not two floors away. It was a wide sofa, so they were able to spoon together in the dark, pillow under their heads, a blanket to keep them warm.

It was one of the more contented night's sleep he'd had in a while, and when he woke in the morning it was to find Mabel standing there beside the sofa, bedraggled and in need of a hairbrush, looking at him.

"Morning," he said to her, propping himself up on an elbow.

She smiled. "Mornin', Mr Wolkda."

"Been up long?" he asked. She shook her head. He looked to his watch—seven in the morning—and inwardly groaned a little. "Well. I suppose the boys will be up before too long. Want to come help make some breakfast?"

She grinned. "Maybe pancakth?"

He chuckled. "Let's see if we can make pancakes."

Gingerly he extricated himself from the sofa so as not to wake Bridget, and together he and Mabel went to the kitchen in search of pancake ingredients. Mabel went directly to the pantry, where there was a container of pancake mix waiting; it only required the addition of water or milk. "Well," he said. "That makes it easy."

Next awake was Matt, who came bleary-eyed into the kitchen area. "Hey, Mabe-ster," he said, patting her on the head; she beamed a smile up at him. "Hey, Dad," he said. "Smells good."

Scott suspected that the smell of pancakes brought him from slumber; it wouldn't have been the first time. "Did you sleep all right?"

"Yup," he said.

"Matt," said Mabel with the enthusiasm and tenacity only a child can have first thing in the morning after they've been promised something, "can you fix the Hellvanian car tyre for me now like you said yesterday?"

"How about after breakfast?" Matt said. "If you want to go get it now, though—"

He had barely finished the suggestion when she was already running away to shoot up the stairs. Both Wallakers could only laugh; Scott saw the lingering fond smile playing on Matt's lips, and said, "I'm glad you are getting along with them."

Matt seemed to understand his father meant Bridget's kids. "They're cool," he said. "I kind of like having a little sister around. That's what it feels like, anyway. And Billy's pretty cool for a little kid."

Scott fought the urge to chuckle, but he supposed for a child approaching his thirteenth birthday, the distinction of a seven-year-old as a little kid helped feel him a bit more grown up. "I hope you like Bridget being around, too," Scott said, pouring the next round of pancakes into the pan.

"Oh, definitely," he said. "It feels like when we're together, we're kind of a family. Though—" He chuckled. "—anything but normal."

Hearing this pained Scott two-fold: that Bridget had been right about boarding school denying them the warmth and fun of family life at home; that perhaps they thought less of Sarah, who, while not perfect, was still their mother.

"She's pretty fond of you two, too," he said. He used the spatula to gauge whether the pancakes needed to be flipped. "You know," he said, "Bridget might be fond of you, but she has no intention of replacing your mother."

"I know," Matt said, though he looked a bit glum given his smiles and giggles of a few minutes ago. Scott asked him what was wrong. "It's nothing."

"Matt, you can be honest with me. I can take it. You're not a baby anymore."

"I love Sarah," Matt began, then amended, "my mum, and I'm sure she tries her best, but… Bridget knows all the names of all of Mabel's toys—and Mabel has about a thousand Sylvanians!—and I just can't imagine Sarah knowing that sort of thing about me. Sarah always has her cook do boiled egg and soldiers for me, even though I've told her scads of times that I don't like boiled egg. But Bridget already knows I'd rather have them scrambled and dry."

Scott began to flip the pancakes, thinking of what it was he could say to this. He had a vague notion of what style of eggs his sons preferred, but to be honest, he had spent more time away from his sons' lives than in it. Sarah, however, did not have that excuse.

"I'm sorry for that," began Scott. "I don't know what—"

"I found de car!"

Mabel's timely return meant he wasn't pressed to finish his reply to Matt, which was good, because he didn't know exactly what he'd say, anyway. Billy and Fred also began to stir, probably at the smell of the pancakes, possibly at Mabel's shriek; Scott suspected that Bridget would soon follow suit.

"Take a seat," said Scott, "and I'll start serving."

At hearing that, the two recumbent boys popped up and ran over to join Mabel and Matt at the table. He spied Bridget's arm come up and over the edge of the blanket, heard her ask, "Put on the coffee?"

"You know I don't know how to work that thing," he joked; she had one of those fancy Nespresso machines, and the old cafetière was more his speed.

Slowly she rose; she ran her hand back over her hair then walked sleepily towards the kitchen. "I'll bring you into the twenty-first century yet," she said, patting his shoulder as he doled out the first batch. "One coffee pod, add water in the back. Easy peasy. See?" She pecked a kiss onto the tip of his nose, prepped the coffee, then took a seat. The children were stuffing forkfuls of pancake into their mouths. "So. Where are my pancakes?"

"Afraid you'll need to wait for these to come off," he said. "Just about there."

Within very short order they all had their fill of pancakes, orange juice and coffee (the latter for the adults, anyway); Bridget said it was only fair that Billy and Fred clear the table and she and Matt would load the dishwasher.

"What about Mabel?" asked Billy.

"She helped me to make the pancakes," reminded Scott, giving Mabel a wink.

"And den you'll fix de car?" Mabel asked Matt.

"Of course I will," Matt said.

"And den play Hellvanians?"

"Only if we're not going home straight away."

"Come on, Mabel," said Scott. "I think we'll not be going straight away. We can get everything set up while they finish in here."

"Okay!"

Mabel bounded over to where her toys were gathered in the corner of the play area; shortly after, after Fred and Billy finished their task, they came over to fire up the Xbox.

"Let me get de car!" said Mabel suddenly.

Scott remembered seeing how close to completely coming apart the car had been, and he said, "I'll get it. Maybe I can take a look at it."

"No!" she said, offering her best pout. "Matt's gonna do it."

"Okay, that's fine," he said, "but I'll get the car."

As he drew closer to the kitchen to retrieve the car that Mabel had brought down, he realised that Bridget and Matt were having a conversation as they stood by the sink. He suspected that with the noise of the Xbox, he never would have known it was happening unless he'd drawn closer like he had… and he suspected that she wanted to talk to him, almost a teenager, without others around. He didn't intent to eavesdrop, but he listened anyway.

"—every mum is a bit different," she was saying. "New mums—and dads, even—don't exactly get a manual when they have a baby… there's so much information and advice out there, some of it conflicts with others, and you don't always know the exact right way to do things, but you try your best. And I'm sure she's doing her best."

Matt said something too quietly for Scott to hear, but he caught the context in Bridget's reply. "Just because your mum does something differently than I do with Billy and Mabel doesn't mean she loves you any less. That would be like saying that… because I turn up late every day for the school run means I love them less than the mums who turn up freakishly early. Which is ridiculous, isn't it?"

Matt chuckled as he nodded; Bridget patted his shoulder.

"Maybe," Matt said tentatively, "maybe it's 'cause we went away to school so early. She didn't get a lot of practise being a mum. And… well, Dad was away, and…."

"I know." She patted his shoulder again. "And?"

"It kind of felt like she was relieved not to have us around."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," said Bridget.

"I don't want to be away at school," Matt confessed, with the air of a heavy burden being lifted. "The other boys can be so mean. They don't bother me so much anymore, and I watch out for Fred as much as I can, but… I don't want to go back there." He sighed. "I wish I could stay here with Dad and you guys."

His first instinct was to burst into the conversation, demand to know what had been happening to Fred, but he knew that would not have at all been productive, would have shattered Matt's trust. Instead, he backed away with the car before either could take notice. Whatever concern had prompted her to speak to Matt like that—possibly she had overheard Matt's earlier complaint, maybe she hadn't been sleeping at all—he was very glad she had done it. Her actions told him, too, that she was doing it out of pure concern for his son, and not to score points with him.

He returned to where Mabel was with the car in hand. "Are you sure I can't—"

"Matt will do it. Matt! Matt!"

"Patience," called back Bridget. "He's not quite done in here."

Now Scott had heard Matt's true, unhappy thoughts voiced, he could think of nothing else. Especially he started to think that the boys really could stay with him, go to Billy's school; surely Martin could work his children into the appropriate classes.

_Why stop there?_ he thought. _Why not just…_

But surely that was too much, living together already. They hadn't been together a month. And where? Neither her house nor his flat was large enough to accommodate them all…

"Penny for your thoughts?"

It was Bridget, who'd returned from the kitchen; Matt was nearly finished, at this point, at fixing the car, which was not truly broken, only disassembled.

"It's nothing," he said. He didn't want to keep it from her, but also didn't want to scare her with the very idea. He had to consider it more.

"You've been sitting ten minutes in silence."

"It's really nothing," he said, then regretted his sharp tone. "I just want to enjoy the rest of the afternoon."

She looked uneasy, but nodded, settling in beside him. The uneasy expression, he realised, was the information she had gained during her conversation with Matt; she couldn't reveal it without betraying his confidence. He had his arm around her shoulder, and gently he squeezed his hand, holding her tightly to him, then kissed her on the temple.

"Suppose I ought to jaunt home for some clean clothes for the boys," he said quietly. "Maybe we could make a day of it. Go sledging, or ice skating, or… climbing trees in Hampstead Heath. Wear your best thong." He swatted her bottom, and playfully she swatted him back. "Then we could pick up treats for New Year's Eve."

She gasped. "Oh my God, that's _tonight_."

"You hadn't made plans, had you?" he teased.

"Last month I thought I'd go out drinking with Talitha and Jude," she said. "But staying in with you and the children is far more appealing."

…

By a quarter to midnight, all four children were fast asleep on the sofa. Scott could only look over them and chuckle softly to himself. They'd tried so hard to keep awake.

"Mabel will be so disappointed," Bridget whispered, looking to her daughter.

"We could wake them just before midnight, then put them properly to sleep," suggested Scott.

"There's the sofa bed, upstairs. Matt and Fred can use that."

He found himself and his lower back wishing he'd known about the sofa bed the night before, but he grinned and nodded.

With a plan in place and five minutes to go, they gently shook the children awake. They sprung to life as if recharged, counting the minutes down on the clock on the wall until the top of the hour.

As the clock approached midnight, Scott came close to her, figured he would indulge in a chaste kiss at the top of the hour. As it ticked ever closer, she held up her finger in a 'wait' gesture, reached down, then flipped open her locket necklace to reveal to him a photo from the Christmas holiday, a photo of all of them, together. He looked back to her, and she was smiling in a very satisfied fashion.

That she'd put their photo in there touched his heart, and he leaned in to give her that kiss, a little less chaste than he'd originally intended. They drew apart with smiles on both their faces, then turned to the kids; the younger boys were pulling faces, while Matt smiled, and Mabel looked pleased. "All right," said Scott. "Time to march up to bed."

"Where are we sleeping?" asked Fred.

"It's upstairs," said Scott. "But first, get your bags. Clean your teeth, brush your hair, put on your pyjamas. Meanwhile, we'll fix it up for you."

"Billy, Mabel, upstairs you go," said Bridget. "Will be up as soon as we're done fixing the sofa bed for them."

On the ground floor, he pulled out the sofa bed while she got out the linens and pillows. "Brilliant foresight on your part," Bridget said with an armful, "packing the boys' bags."

"What can I say? I'm psychic," he said, winking.

They made up the bed; being older, Matt and Fred were perfectly capable of getting themselves ready, so Bridget suggested he join her upstairs to make sure Billy and Mabel weren't destroying the bedroom in the quest for their pyjamas. "You can say goodnight, too," said Bridget. "Mabel will insist, anyway."

Miraculously, Mabel and Billy were already washed up, in their pyjamas, and already in their respective beds. Bridget stepped up onto the second rung of the ladder, combed back Billy's hair with her fingers, and then kissed him goodnight. "Happy new year, Billy."

"Happy new year, Mum," he said.

Bridget stepped down, and Scott stepped up to say goodnight. "Happy 2014, Billster." He ruffled Billy's hair affectionately, which made Billy giggle.

"Happy new year, Mr Wallaker," Billy said. "Good night."

Bridget had sat beside Mabel, had pulled the sheet up to her chin, her doll tucked in beside her. "You nice and comfy? Saliva too?" Mabel nodded twice. "All right. Night, night, baby princess." She kissed her daughter, smoothed down her hair. "Happy new year."

Scott bent too to say good night, then decided since it was too far down, he'd just sit beside her. "Goodnight, Mabel; goodnight, Saliva," he said, then bent and pecked a kiss on the doll's then Mabel's forehead, as he'd done every night in the country, and what Mabel now expected. The kiss made her giggle, as it had always done.

"Night, Mr Wolkda."

Bridget switched the light off, triggering the night light on, before pulling the door shut most of the way. "Two down," said Scott, "two to go."

Unsurprisingly, Matt and Fred had found the sofa bed, and had put themselves under the covers; they sat there waiting.

"Hey, great job," said Scott, walking close enough to run his hand over each of his son's hair. "Sleep tight. We'll be just upstairs if you need a thing. All right?"

They nodded.

"Happy new year, and good night," he said.

Bridget, on the other hand sat down next to Fred as he dropped back to his pillow. She pulled the sheets up, then bent to peck him on the cheek. As often as he'd seen her do it with them, it took him aback how fluidly natural, how maternal, this action was towards children who were not even her own. "Goodnight, Fredster."

He grinned. "Night, Bridgster."

She popped up then went around to the other side of the bed to do the same for Matt. Scott would have expected Matt would think he was too old for a kiss goodnight, but he seemed to really like this little ritual. "Night, Mattster." She pecked his cheek, too.

"Night," said Matt drowsily.

"Happy new year," she added, and with that the two of them went back upstairs to her room. She closed the door, engaged the lock, for which he was grateful; he really wanted to take her into his arms and not worry about interruption.

And take her into his arms he did, kissing her with increasing passion, walking her to the bed, divesting her of her clothes, worshiping her body as she so richly deserved; when they were through, satiated and cuddling on the bed, he felt like the year was beginning on all the right notes.

Instead of dozing as he would have expected, though, he could tell by the way her nails grazed his chest that she was in no danger of falling asleep soon. "It was nice today, wasn't it?" she asked at last. "Just all of us, together, having fun?"

"Mm, yes," he said.

"It seems the boys are really fond of Mabel and Billy," she continued. "Are they?"

"I think you know they are very fond of Billy and Mabel," he said, "and of you. The opposite is also blatantly true." He raised up a bit to see if he could see her features. "Bridget, what's on your mind?" As he asked it, he knew. Her conversation with Matt was weighing heavily on her mind, and she was sounding him out. "You know I accidentally overheard some of the conversation you were having with Matt today. Thank you for that."

"Oh," she said. "Why did you let me dangle all day?"

"I didn't want Matt to know I'd heard… even as I'm glad to have heard it. That was eye-opening."

"Yes…" she said slowly. "Matt is a bit reluctant to open up, so I had to show him I was willing to listen and not judge. Not that you would, but it's different, I think, not confiding in the one person he wants most to impress and please. The reluctance is just… something I'm familiar with."

"Familiar with?"

She was quiet. "Mark. He went to boarding school. Made me promise never to send our children away."

He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead.

"The nightmares he used to have," she continued. "Oh, they broke my heart."

"I'm sorry," he said, holding her close.

"What about you?" she asked.

"Me? What about me?"

"Were you happy there, away at school? Do you have nightmares about it?"

Had he been? He decided that no, 'happy' was probably not the best word to describe his school years; it was just something he'd had to do, something he had brazened out. The distance of time had blurred the bad experiences from his memories and highlighted the good, but he knew that his generation, what he experienced was meant to toughen him up as a man. He wondered if he wanted that for his own boys. He wondered if he had ever even given it a second thought. Maybe he should have.

"Not about that, not anymore," he answered; the atrocities he'd seen in Afghanistan had superseded anything the school could have inflicted on him.

It was as if she read his mind. "Of course not. Sorry." She reached up and kissed the tip of his chin.

"And no," he said. "I can't say I was ever _happy_ to be away at school. But it was what it was, an accepted part of life; I never expected not to go away."

"I can't even imagine," she said.

"What about your childhood? What was that like?"

She smiled up at him. "It was how I think childhood should be like. Playing. Having fun with friends. Going to school, sleeping in my own bed. Palling around with my dad—I was always such a daddy's girl, and God do I miss him—and rebelling against my mum. But having my parents' support whenever I needed it. They were always there. I didn't have to suppress it. Didn't have to pretend I didn't need help. They always knew."

"Hmm," he said. "Wanted to ask your opinion on something."

"Oh?"

"Mm-hm," he said. "Considering pulling the boys from their school, putting them with—"

"Oh my God, really?!" she squealed, bouncing up, turning to look at him.

"Yes."

"What about Sarah? Will she let you?"

"If I told her I was pulling them out of school to live with her, I'm sure she'd object," he said. "Since I'm not, I doubt she'll care. And anyway, I'm paying for their schooling. As far as I am concerned, I have the deciding vote."

"Oh, please, more than consider it. The thought of Billy and Mabel enjoying your affection when your own boys cannot… it's more than I can bear." She leaned down to kiss him. "Please do it," she said between kisses. "Please."

"Mm, I'll think about it," he said; as she slipped over him, straddled his hips, he added, "though you make a convincing argument."

Neither said a peep to the children about the possibility of Matt and Fred switching schools, as it would have been imprudent and cruel to raise hopes unnecessarily. Talking to Sarah was one thing, but he couldn't well take them out of their school without securing a place in a new one.

With the children engaged in a board game, first Scott slipped away to ring up Sarah to ask if they could meet, then, when a date and time was established, Bridget slipped away to ring up Rebecca to see if she could watch the children during that time.

"Though I wonder if catching her just after she's returned from her holiday is the best idea; not likely to be in the best mood," Scott said confidentially as the children were occupied stowing the game away; he was teasing, though, and it showed in his smile.

"Tomorrow for lunch," she reiterated. "I'm sure it'll be fine, right?"

He nodded. He wasn't worried about her answer. He was more worried about how Sarah would treat Bridget. After all, he hadn't forgotten her comment at the Sports Day.


	9. Chapter 9

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

_Thurs, 2 January 2014_

Scott expected that Sarah would turn up late, because she always loved making an entrance, so he had no qualms about allowing himself and Bridget to be led to the table and order wine in advance of Sarah's arrival. Not unsurprisingly, Sarah strolled in twenty minutes late, stopping short when she got to the table.

"What's this?" Sarah said.

"Lunch?" offered Scott.

Her gaze bore down on Bridget. "I thought this was a discussion about our sons."

"I told you Bridget was coming when we spoke yesterday."

Her eyes moved to Scott. "You did not."

"I did," he said.

"Well, I was tired from travelling," she said dismissively, sitting down at the table with them.

_Probably half-soused_, thought Scott, as the server took her order for a glass of wine.

"So what did you want to discuss?" she asked, once the server had departed. "Is this a… you know, an official announcement thing?" Sarah pointed to Bridget with a cocked thumb.

He chuckled quietly to himself, reaching over to take Bridget's hand. "Not quite," he said. "But you can take it as such, if you like. No, this is about the boys. I want to take them out of boarding school. Bring them to live with me. Send them to the school at which I work."

It was, perhaps, the most speechless Scott had ever seen Sarah. She didn't blink, and he wasn't even sure she breathed. It was like her brain was a rebooting computer.

And then everything came online again.

"Are you out of your _mind_?" she hissed. "Their school is one of the most prestigious in England. Their attendance there will open doors others can't hope to. And _you_! _You_ were the one so insistent in the first place that they be placed there! What on earth—" She broke off suddenly, her gaze darting to Bridget again. She didn't need to say a word for Scott to know what she was thinking.

"Do not even say it," he said, his tone low.

Sarah, of course, did not listen: "She talked you into it, didn't she?"

"You're being ridiculous," Scott said.

"What _else_ has changed, Scott?" she asked. "What else would drive you to abandon your goals for them? Is she not happy with two children of her own, she has to take mine too?"

"Excuse me." This from Bridget. "In case you haven't noticed, I am sitting right here."

"Why did you even come?" asked Sarah. "So that you two could gang up on me? To make sure he didn't fold on you?"

"I came," she said evenly, "because I do care about your sons, and they are not happy where they are."

"How do you know they're not happy?" she said.

"Matt told me so."

"Oh, did he?" she said snottily. "Well, what about going to school is supposed to be 'happy'? You're there to learn, end of story."

"Enough of this," said Scott; he found it increasingly difficult to keep the rein on his anger with Sarah. "I'm doing it with or without your blessing. I wanted to give you the courtesy—"

"No," said Bridget calmly bur firmly. "Scott, you _could_ make a unilateral decision, but honestly, I don't think it helps with familial harmony." She turned. "And Sarah, you need to understand, so I want you to please listen to me. It is _not_ just a matter of whining that 'the work's too hard' or 'I don't like the maths teacher'." Bridget took a deep breath. "Matt told me that the other children taunt and bully him. Used to be worse when he was smaller. Does what he can to protect Fred, who's getting it worse now than he ever did. That's all I could really get him to say."

Once again Sarah looked a bit gobsmacked. "They would have told me if things were that bad! And besides, boys picking on other boys—" Now she made a small dismissive sound, her confidence returning a little. "—isn't that sort of a normal school experience?"

"But why _should_ it be?" Bridget said, her colour rising. "It's traumatising! My… my husband had nightmares into his fifties. That's _not_ what I'd call normal." She took a breath, and when she continued, she had calmed again. "Sorry to lose my temper, there… but when I think about how upset Matt was… you're right, school is for learning, but how effective is it to attend lessons when you spend all of your mental energy worrying about when the bullies will strike next? I _know_ you want your boys to be happy and safe." She paused, and when she spoke again Bridget's voice got even kinder, more compassionate. "This isn't anything to do with what I want, Sarah. I promise you—I have no desire to steal your boys, turn them against you, or anything of the sort."

Surely Sarah could see the plain concern that Bridget had for Matt and Fred, the pleading for understanding in her eyes, the sincere emotion in her tone. Scott found his voice at last, and spoke up. "They've been so happy over the break," he said. "I think they'll do well in my school… and it's not like the school's an educational slouch."

"Oh, _yes_," said Bridget. "You should have a tour."

"Mind you," said Scott, "I need to talk to Martin Miller. The headmaster. I didn't want to make a move until we had spoken, because I really would like you on board with this idea."

"What do the boys think?" she asked in a very neutral tone. "Is this something they want?"

"Haven't mentioned a word to them yet," Scott said. "But I overheard what Matt said. I could tell he was deeply troubled, and he said he wished he could stay here with us." He felt Bridget's hand cover his where it laid on the table.

Appealing to Sarah's maternal instincts, as unpractised as they might have been, had apparently worked. Before his eyes, her features softened, and he saw what he looked like fondness, maybe even respect, as she turned her gaze towards Bridget. "Okay," she said. "All right. I'm on board."

"You won't regret this, Sarah," said Scott.

"When we've got everything settled," said Bridget with a bright, genuine smile, "we'll do a dinner together, I think. You should be there to tell them."

"Do you really think this can happen before the term starts on Monday?" Sarah asked, clearly a bit sceptical.

"If Miller can give me a verbal assurance they can get in," Scott said, "I will take them back only to pack up their things on Sunday. So maybe keep your Saturday night free."

To his surprise, Sarah actually smiled. "I'll do that."

Once the discussion was out of the way, lunch proceeded smoothly, or as smoothly as it could with Sarah present; Scott was actually quite pleased to see Bridget and Sarah talking and getting along so well. It boded well for future harmony.

When the lunch concluded, Scott felt it only right that he pay for the lunch for which he had asked Sarah to meet him. She actually thanked him, which surprised Scott, even as she said she knew she'd been right, alluding cattily to the Sports Day suspicions of his attraction so long ago. They all said their goodbyes and then Sarah parted ways with them; during the walk to the car, Scott's mind was focused only on his contacting Miller.

Midway through the drive home, the silence was broken: "You're very quiet."

He glanced to Bridget, and as he focused on the road again, he explained what was on his mind.

"Oh, I meant during lunch," she said, a lilt of humour in her voice. "You barely said a thing to Sarah."

"I said what I wanted to say," he explained matter-of-factly. "In case you hadn't noticed, we don't have a great conversational rapport."

He heard her giggle. "How did that ever happen, anyway?"

"How did what happen?" he asked.

"Well, you and Sarah," she said. "You seem polar opposites, yet you were together long enough to marry and have two children."

He considered how to answer, how to best summarise their long and storied history, which she evidently misunderstood to mean displeasure. "Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have asked." With a light, mirthless laugh, she added, "After all, one could've said the same about Mark and me."

He reached over, placed a hand on her knee. "I don't mind you asking," he said. "I was just gauging how to begin."

With that, he just decided to begin at the beginning. The ride wasn't terribly long, necessitating a summary before they arrived back to the house, but the essentials were there. Knowing Sarah from their overlapping social circles since they were young, remaining friendly while he had his Commissioning Course and training at Sandhurst, then when he moved on to SAS; he spent a lot of time away from England, but they always found time to catch up, and she'd always been so happy to see him.

It was the turn of the century, the year 2000, that got him thinking about the future, the need to put down roots, maybe even start a family, and he had begun to view Sarah as more than just a friendly face when he returned from abroad. They struck up a physical relationship, and it had been very good at first (he told Bridget with some trepidation), but it was the accident that resulted in Matt that hurried along the wedding bells. "Mind you," he said, "she'd been hinting at wanting the ring well before the pregnancy, so in retrospect I'm not sure how much of an accident Matt actually was." After a pause, he added, "I'm certain, though, that Fred the very next year was a total surprise."

It was not long after the ceremony that her true colours had begun to show through. She hadn't had much in the way of liquid assets of her own, and once she had access to his money, she spent progressively more and more; he didn't mind the charitable donations, but the luxury purchases and the plastic surgery got to be a bit much.

"I knew the marriage was doomed," he said. "I decided to go along with her and prop up the façade of wanting to be a loving mother and wife, but even that couldn't save us. She beat me to the punch, though; she filed while I was in Afghanistan. I suppose she thought she'd gain the upper hand, claiming irreconcilable differences because I was abroad so often… all the while beginning an affair with her personal trainer. Divorce was final when Fred was two." He turned onto Chalk Farm.

"What about the fleecing?"

"I beg your pardon?" he asked with a chuckle.

Bridget blushed brightly. "Rebecca told me she—Sarah, I mean—tried to fleece you."

He smiled. "She made outrageous demands for a divorce settlement, especially considering she was the unfaithful one," he said. "Tried to get the house from me, too. Capthorpe."

"_No_," Bridget said in an awed whisper.

"Yes. Ridiculous, though the chutzpah is admirable, in its way. Fortunately my lawyer was smarter and better than her own."

Now parked before her house, he switched off the ignition. "Let me ring up Miller before I go inside," he said. "Tell the kids I'm… ordering pizza for dinner or something."

"You'd better follow through with that," she said with a smirk. "And don't forget, Rebecca and her brood are in there, too." She leaned across the seat, pecked him on the lips. "Oh, let's establish a code now. For the headmaster's answer."

"Okay," he said. "What did you have in mind?"

"Margherita for yes. Anchovy for no."

He laughed. "And what about, er, 'I'll get back to you on that'?"

"Meat-lover's," she said. "Will lessen the pain of the anxiety of waiting."

He leaned and kissed her again. "Go on in. Hope to be in soon myself."

He waited until she was out of sight, in the house, before pulling out the mobile and punching Miller's contact. It rang three times before he picked up.

"Scott. To what do I owe the honour?" he said, obviously in a good mood. "Having a nice break? Ready to come back to reality for Monday?"

He supposed it was an oblique reference to the rumour mill, which surely was abuzz with the story of his getting together with Bridget. "Quite nice," he said neutrally. "Listen. There's something I'd like to ask."

When the conversation was over, he placed the order for the pizza before going inside. He was greeted by a gaggle of excited children, all of whom were clearly wound up at the prospect of a pizza dinner.

"What took so long?" Matt asked.

"They were busy, and it took some time to decide on the toppings," he said. He looked up to meet Bridget's eye. "A couple of pepperoni pies, and for the adults… Margheritas."

Bridget brought her hands up to her mouth, tears suddenly flooding her eyes. "Really?" she asked.

"Mummeee!" said Mabel, hugging around her legs. "You don't have to cry over peet-tha!"

"Really," he said with a smile, then slipped his hand around her waist for a hug. Rebecca, hair festooned with plastic snowflakes, looked to them in such a way that told him she knew there was more to the conversation than met the eye, but knew better than to ask.

* * *

><p><em>Sat, 4 January, 2014<em>

Matt and Fred knew something strange was up. Not only had their father not been hounding them to get their things together for the trip back to school on Sunday, but he told them they were going over to Bridget's for the evening the night before said supposed trip. "We're having dinner there," he said. "Your mother's coming too."

Matt and Fred shared a look. "What's going on?" asked Matt.

"We have something we want to tell you."

Matt's eyes went wide. "Are you getting married?"

Scott chuckled. "Matt, she's only been my girlfriend for a little over three weeks. No."

"Is she moving in with you?"

"No," he said. "Where would she put all of that stuff, and Billy and Mabel to boot?"

Matt looked thoughtful. "She's not gonna have a baby, is she?"

"Matt," he said, laughing. "There are no babies in the future. I'm far too old to start over with babies, and I'm pretty sure Mabel is the end of it for Bridget, too." He paused, patting his sons on their shoulders. "You will find out soon enough."

They were steeped in curiosity for the whole of the afternoon, which probably accounted for why they were so quiet; when they got to Bridget's, they didn't even beg to play Xbox. Sarah had yet to arrive, so the boys sat on the sofa with nervous energy emanating from them as Mabel placed Hellvanians next to their laps and on them as if they were a landscape. Billy looked sulky—obviously, he had hoped to play with Matt and Fred—and a bit on edge, too, so Scott asked him blandly, to make conversation, if he'd gotten his homework for the break completed.

"Oh f—" Bridget's hand went to her mouth. "The homework!"

Scott laughed. "There's always tomorrow."

When Sarah arrived, both Matt and Fred erupted up off of the sofa, inadvertently ruining Mabel's diorama, making her wail. "Sorry, sorry," said Fred, trying to placate her, as Matt ran up to ask their mother what was going on.

"Daddy won't tell us," Matt said.

Again, Sarah looked a little less plastic (and more sober) than usual, and smiled warmly. "He won't?" she asked, glancing up to him. "Well, Scott, whenever you're ready. I'm not sure they'll last through dinner in this state."

As Scott told them the news, he was sure they had guessed a million things in their mind, but given their reactions, none of those things were the reality that they would be leaving boarding school and going to the senior branch of the same school that Billy and Mabel attended.

"We… we're not going back to the school tomorrow?" Matt asked. He looked a bit stunned.

"Well, you are, but just to get your things," he said.

To Scott's surprise, both of his sons looked to Bridget as smiles overtook their faces. "Thank you, Bridget!"

"Hey, hey, hey," said Scott. "It was our decision to make, your mother's and mine."

"But you got the idea from Bridget, though, didn't you?"

"No," said Bridget. "Not directly, anyway. Now go on; thank your mum and dad properly, will you?"

The boys went to their parents, one to each, for long and extended hugs before the boys traded off. "Thank you so much, Dad," Matt said to Scott; it sounded to Scott like Matt was holding back tears. "I love you."

"I love you too, Matt," Scott replied, tightening his hug for a moment before releasing him.

Scott looked away to see Billy and Mabel watching them with interest. "Does this mean they're gonna live here all the time?" asked Billy.

"Yes."

Billy's face got progressively brighter. "And they're going to my school?"

"My thchool too," said Mabel defensively.

"The senior branch," said Scott to Billy. "Yes."

Breaking the silence, Bridget said, "After all of that, I bet you guys are hungry."

"Yes!" said the boys in unison, grinning madly; in that moment they looked more than ever like younger versions of their father.

Dinner was spaghetti Bolognese, which the boys devoured in heaps; Scott too was plenty hungry after the tension of the last few days, getting the details settled, and ate so much he was almost uncomfortably full. "Have to say," said Scott, "that this was _very_ good. Thank you."

Bridget smiled. "You're very welcome."

"Boys," said Sarah unexpectedly, glancing to Scott. "What do you say to a sleepover with me tonight? One last hurrah before school starts."

"Oh, I wanna go on a thleepover!" said Mabel.

Sarah looked now to Bridget. "I can have them all over, if… well. You probably could use a night alone."

It was an olive branch Scott would have never expected from her, and he couldn't say he was eager to accept, but with Matt and Fred there to help watch over them, he didn't object if Bridget didn't. Scott looked to Bridget, who looked frankly stunned.

"Um, well, yes, that'd be lovely," said Bridget. "Thank you."

With that, Mabel let out a shout of cheer, and much fuss for packing her and Billy's knapsacks began.

With Matt and Fred occupied with helping Billy and Mabel prepare with Bridget, Sarah said quietly, "I promise I'll behave."

"I trust you," he said. "Just don't let them stay up too late. Big day tomorrow."

She nodded. "I'll get them back before eleven." After a moment, she chuckled. "Here, or your flat?"

It put a spin on the whole 'your place or mine?' cliché, and he smiled, too. "Let's make it easier on logistics, and go with here," he said. "Then we can caravan to the school."

"Me too?" asked Sarah.

"If you can," said Scott.

"Oh, yes, you have to come too," said Matt; the boys returned to the room ahead of Bridget and her children. "Please?"

"Yes, please?"

He had never seen Sarah look quite so emotionally affected. "Well, if you insist," she said. "We can make an afternoon of it."

Once the house was emptied out of all except himself and Bridget, it seemed almost too quiet. He took her into his arms, and for a long while they just stood holding one another in the silence. He pulled back, met her gaze with his, and smiled before kissing her full on the mouth.

When she drew back, she spoke, but not quite what he expected.

"They'll be okay, won't they?"

He chuckled. "They'll be fine," he said, then kissed her again; they didn't speak again for a long, long while, and when they did it was on a subject he didn't expect.

"You know," she said quietly, almost tentatively, afterwards in the dimly lit bedroom, "Matt told me that he was convinced the big news was going to be I was coming to live with you." She paused. "Isn't that sweet?"

"Mm, yes, I thought so."

"He asked you?"

"And I denied it, yes."

"Oh," she said. This elicited surprise in him, because she sounded almost… disappointed. Then she asked, "You think it's too soon?"

"I did say that," he replied.

"Well…" she trailed off. "It took you forever to recognise that you loved me, so maybe you're wrong there, too." She pushed herself up in order to meet his eye. "We love each other, we love the kids, we make a pretty damned good family," she said. She swallowed hard, looking very nervous. "We should just do it."

He considered her words, thought about their time together; he realised that even though it was thus far a short courtship it had gone beyond late-night secret shags after the children were asleep, and had already bloomed into a full partnership. All of the board games, cooked meals, shopping trips… it was more of a partnership than he'd ever had with Sarah.

"You're wrong," he murmured at last, then at her horrified look, he laughed. "I mean it was _you_ who took forever to recognise you loved _me_."

"You bastard," she whispered, then reached across to smack his arm. "Don't scare me like that." She still looked serious, and very concerned. "But what do you _think_? Don't leave me out on a limb, here."

His mind flashed back to that day in the snow, almost exactly a year ago, to the precariously balanced Billy and Mabel and that tantalising glimpse of thong, and he smiled. "I haven't before," he said, pulling her back down to him, "and I won't start now."

His last thought before drifting off to sleep was that Leigh had helped him find a place to live once. She could help him again. Rather, she could help _them_.

* * *

><p><em>Mon, 6 January 2014<em>

"Mr Wallaker!"

He turned to see the grinning face of Alan Pitlochry-Howard, and winced a little inside. He had not managed to see the man the whole of the first day of classes so far, and knew, like with so many of the other teachers—and even mothers!—that he'd seen so far that he was in for a round of teasing.

"Hello, Mr Pitlochry-Howard," said Scott smoothly. "How are things going for you?"

"Just fine, just fine indeed," he said. Scott had just about decided he'd overreacted when Alan struck: "You must have had an, er, _exhausting_ break, Scott…" At his icy glare, Alan added, "Heh, I meant all of those children, right?"

"Very funny," he said.

Alan reached out, put his hand on Scott's upper arm and spoke quietly. "In all seriousness, I've never seen her happier," said Alan. "Or you, for that matter. Well done."

Scott allowed a grin. "Thank you."

"How are your boys making out so far in the Senior Branch?"

Word of that had clearly gotten around about them, too. "They can hardly believe it," he said; he'd seen them briefly at lunch, but he also heard what the other boys were saying when he'd gone to Senior Branch to sign the paperwork. "They're almost like instant celebrities, albeit minor. The other boys heard their last name and realised that their father is the—" He snorted a small, self-deprecating laugh. "—superhero of East Finchley." His grin faded a bit as he spoke again; how much sooner he should have taken them from boarding school. "They're doing great, though. Really great. They love it here."

"I'm very glad to hear it," Alan said. "Very glad indeed." He chuckled a little, and at Scott's querulous look, he explained: "Billy missed his homework."

"Oh, fuck," he muttered, instantly grateful that no one else was around.

"That's exactly what I understood Mrs Darcy to have said," said Alan, a twinkle in his eye. "But, I figured the upheaval in his life over the break was a pretty good excuse, so he's got 'til Friday to make it up. See if you can't remind him to do it?"

Scott nodded. "Best be off to see the school pickups."

"Right." As they parted, Alan added, "Oh, and Scott…"

Scott turned back around.

"Congratulations again."

He smiled, nodded again, and then proceeded on his way.

"Well, hello, Mr Wallaker."

Looking as smug as he'd ever seen her was school secretary Valerie, standing there near the school gates, her arms crossed and bearing a big smile.

"Hello, Valerie," he said.

"I take it we have had a very happy ending?"

"It's by no means an ending," he said with a hint of a grin.

Her smile broadened. "I am _so_ happy for you both. I've been rooting for you for months."

_Months? I guess I _was_ transparent,_ he thought, but only said, "Thank you."

From most of the other mothers he got knowing smiles and nods, to which he nodded in return. Nicolette Martinez, however, seemed a bit gruff in picking her boys up from the school. "Atticus! Eros!" she barked, then looked to Scott with a stiff smile. "Mr Wallaker."

"Hello, Mrs Martinez," he said. Remembering something Bridget had told him about a trip to the Maldives, he added, "Hope you had a pleasant break."

She raised a brow. "It was… profitable," she said with a smirk. She spotted her sons coming towards them, accompanied by Billy. "Ah," she said. "Of _course_ Mrs Darcy's late." He was about to respond, feeling the betrayal and shock given the détente he'd thought she and Bridget had found, when she added, "I don't suppose Bridget's in any hurry, knowing you stay to the end anyway." She turned to wink to him and at that, he chuckled, realising she'd been having a joke at his expense. "Don't suppose I need to ask how your break was, Mr Wallaker," she said with a grin.

"Hi, Mr Wallaker."

He looked down to see Billy, Atticus, and Eros. Scott had noticed earlier that the latter two had looked very happy, even relaxed, on their first day back. "Hey, Billy," he said. "Hi, boys."

"I did really good on the spelling test today," Billy said proudly.

"Great job," said Scott. "And you?" he asked Atticus.

"I didn't do so good," Atticus said glumly.

Scott watched Mrs Martinez, saw her struggling with how to respond; after all, she had spent so long trying to form her boys into perfect little packaged products that she was just learning how to treat them like boys. At last, she smiled, crouched down and patted his shoulder. "You tried your best, didn't you?" she asked.

Atticus nodded, though he looked a bit skittish.

"We'll just have to practise more, that's all," she said, which garnered a bright smile from Atticus.

"Okay, Mummy."

She stood up again, looked to Scott as if for approval; very subtly, he nodded. He actually was proud of the progress she had made in so short a time.

"Come on, boys," said Mrs Martinez. "Time to go home. Daddy's promised a surprise for us!" She said goodbye to him and to Billy, and then was on her way.

"Well, Billster," said Scott, "Matt and Fred should be along to meet us here at any time… as should your mum and Mabel."

"Eventually," Billy said, then giggled. "She's late a lot."

"Hey, Dad," called Matt's voice, right on time; he and Fred were heading their way.

"Yeah, she is," confided Scott, "but we love her anyway, don't we?"

Billy nodded.

Bridget, with Mabel in tow, were not too far behind them, the last of the parents to turn up. Bridget looked exceedingly excited, more so than just having picked Mabel up. "Oh my God," she said. "You'll never guess what I saw."

He brought his brows together. "What? A clock?"

She pulled a face, stuck out her tongue, which sent the children into fits of giggles. "For that, you'll have to come see for yourself," she said mysteriously. "It's near where I parked, 'round the corner."

His interest was piqued. "All right. I guess we can detour to your car before we go to mine."

The six of them walked towards her car; he looked around and didn't see anything out of the ordinary. "I'll bite," he said. "What am I supposed to be looking at?"

She pointed, and that was when he saw it: the lovely brick house, one which he had admired once or twice before, with a brand new sign driven into the soil of the front garden. _FOR SALE. SIX BR. 2B._ Below that was printed the number of the estate agent, which he recognised.

Bridget said, "It's a sign."

"So it is," he replied drolly.

"Shut up," she teased, tapping him with a playful punch. "That was _not_ there before the Christmas break."

She was right; the house had formerly looked quite occupied, even well-lived in, but now it had that vacant look, all the curtains closed. Quite the front garden by London standards, and big, broad trees all around for getting one's thongs stuck in. "Hm." He turned to the children. "Well, I'm not promising anything, kids, but what do you think of that house?"

There were many murmurs of assent, but Mabel made her opinion definitely known: "I love it! There's thwings in the back—I can thee them!"

"Eagle eye, that child," Scott said.

"Nothing gets by her," Bridget replied. "Just like my mum that way."

Without hesitation, Scott pulled his mobile phone out and dialled the number. When answered, Scott said, "Leigh, I don't know if you remember me, but I'm in the market for a bigger place, and I think I might have just found it."

Leigh sounded hesitant but friendly, like she recognised the voice but couldn't quite place it. "Who's calling?"

"It's Wallaker," he said, looking to Bridget and watching the smile blossom on her face. "Scott Wallaker."


	10. Epilogue

**Wallaker's Discovery**

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 63,000 (in nine chapters and an epilogue)  
><span>Rating<span>: T / PG-13  
><span>Summary, Disclaimer, Notes<span>: See Chapter 1.

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue<strong>

_Sat, 21 June 2014_

Another year older, possibly wiser. No, _definitely_ wiser.

Scott hadn't wanted a big fuss made, but as the morning progressed, as friends and family arrived to the new house just by the school, he was becoming increasingly glad Bridget had insisted. He would have ordinarily retreated to the corner, grilling up all of the food, but she had insisted against that too, saying that people were coming to see him, to talk to him, and he wasn't going to hide in the corner.

"Yes ma'am," he'd said. Thus, she'd gotten Daniel Cleaver to manage the grilling, though he suspected half of what Daniel pulled off of the grill was going to be a bit blackened for the flirting he in which he engaged.

Daniel had grown on him. At first it bothered Scott a bit that her ex had spent so much time with her, had watched her children on overnight sleepovers in the past, but he realised as Daniel flirted outrageously with her that it had little to do with wanting to win her back and more to do with just who he was. "He flirts with everyone," she'd said dismissively, which had hurt his feelings a little, but subsequent meetings with Daniel had proven her correct.

"What're you doin' in here by yourself?"

He'd gone to the kitchen ostensibly to fetch more beer to stock the cooler outdoors, but had gotten caught up in his thoughts, and now Mabel had found him. She looked a bit cross.

"It's your birthday," she continued, "and you're thupposta come out and have fun."

"Stand down, Princess," he said with a chuckle, patting the top of her head with his hand; it amazed him to think how much she'd grown in the year and a half he'd known her. "I was just getting more beer."

"Oh," she said. Her big blue eyes slid to the right, to where sat a covered tray of mini-cupcakes that Bridget's mother had brought. "Can I have one of those?"

He was about to say no, that those were treats for after they ate a proper meal when they were going to do the cake, but he noticed that one or two was already gone, and he connected this with having seen Bridget licking her fingertips. He pursed his lips, and without a word he lifted the lid and snuck one out for her. "Not a word to your mummy."

She grinned as she accepted it. "Thankth."

For good measure, he had one too, and it was delicious. To hide evidence of the crime, he cleaned up the cupcake papers, bundling them into tiny balls and pitching them away. As he did, something in the trash bin caught his eye and made him chuckle: there sat the DVD case (and presumably the DVD itself) for _Thy Neighbour's Yacht_, the straight-to-video release of Bridget's long-suffering _Hedda Gabler_ screenplay, which they had watched the night before in bed after the children had gone to sleep. The majority of the ninety minutes of watching it with her had been like listening to a commentary track outlining the butchering they had done to her story—sample comments: "Set it on a bloody yacht… just because they'd already bloody rented one!" and "Have we got enough in the bank to buy the rest of the DVD run?"—when she wasn't hiding her head under the sheets in horror and despair. He did laugh a lot, mostly at the production values, but often with the dialogue, which had the stamp of Bridget's wit and personality all over it.

Gingerly he pulled the case out of the bin—fortunately it had been newly emptied—and set it aside and out of sight. He would deal with it later, but there was no way he was going to let this piece of history go, not when her newest script was exceptionally good and delightfully yacht-free. However, right now—

"Come on, Mabel, let's go back to the party." He handed her one of the bottle carriers bearing six bottles of beer. "You can carry this one for me in penance for having a sweet."

She giggled. "OK."

They exited the kitchen and were on their way over to the cooler when Bridget intercepted them, a smile on her face as she saw her youngest hauling bottles of beer. The smile transformed into a look of curiosity, and she crouched down to wipe something from Mabel's chin. "Icing," she said impatiently. "Mabel, what did I tell you about not eating the mini-cupcakes?"

Mabel looked up to Scott, obviously torn; she did not want to betray their shared secret, but did not want to be punished, either.

"I gave it to her," Scott admitted.

Bridget turned, lifted one sceptical brow. "_You_ did?" she asked, grinning now, rising to her full height again. "Mr Discipline?"

"It's my birthday party, and I can change the rules if I see fit," he said stoically. "Besides, the cover over them had already been breached. _Ahem_."

She said nothing, only smiled again, guiltily wiping her clean fingers against her shorts.

"So as I see it, it's either punish all girls who steal cupcakes, or punish none," he added with a wink.

Birthdays had never been much of a big deal for him the past; either they were ignored altogether (not much reason to feel celebratory in the middle of a war zone), or were spent awkwardly with Sarah with the boys away at school and unable to break away for the day. He was rather turning around on the concept, though; he was enjoying seeing so many happy faces there, old friends, friends of hers that were now friends of his, his family and hers, even Mark's parents, who seemed delighted and thrilled to have been included, who Billy and Mabel were exceedingly pleased to see, and by whom Matt and Fred seemed intrigued, the idea of foster grandparents of a sort.

Scott cracked open a beer, then went to see if there was something grilled that wasn't either quivering in the centre or blackened on the edges. Daniel was holding court as he was wont to do, though they were probably equally eager for a hot dog as they were for his ability to tell a good story.

"Scott," Daniel said with a smile. "Birthday boy. Man of the hour. What can I get for you?" He pointed with his grilling tongs. "Burger? Chicken? Hot dog?"

To his surprise, Daniel seemed to be fairly proficient at barbecuing, judging by the grill and plate both full of picture-perfect mounds of meat, and Scott immediately regretted his earlier prejudicial thoughts. "I'll have a burger, thanks."

He spotted Billy, Fred and Matt at the table a short distance away where the side-dishes and the condiments were, and once he had his burger he went to make sure they weren't making a disaster of the mustard and the potato salad.

"Heya boys," he said. "Billster, Fredster, Mattster."

"Hey Dad," said Matt, preparing to take another large spoonful of fruit salad. Scott was amazed, yet again, at how tall his eldest had sprouted. Not quite as tall as himself, yet, but taller now than Bridget.

"Don't take too much," Scott cautioned. "Your eyes tend to be bigger than your stomach."

"You know I'll eat it all," he said.

"I'll hold you to it."

Billy, who'd be eight soon enough, had taken to idolising Matt much in the way Fred had always done. "You, Billster, will never eat all of that macaroni salad," Scott said, spooning some of it back into the serving bowl.

"Sorry," he said.

"No need to apologise; you hadn't eaten from it yet," Scott said, then pointed to Matt. "Besides, you'll have this one's appetite before too long." When he finished, he turned to find Mabel had appeared with a plate and a hot dog upon it.

"See, I told you I'd thtill eat a hot dog," she said. She hadn't, but he smiled anyway.

"Want me to fix your hot dog up for you?" he asked.

She nodded, holding up her plate to him with a grin.

He knew she liked a little ketchup and mustard. "So what else do you want with your hot dog?" he asked, pointing to the rest of the available food.

"Everything," she said.

He gave her very small portions of all of the side dishes, then herded them over to sit and eat, telling him he would return once he'd finished fixing his own plate.

Waiting for him at the table was Rebecca, looking playful with her mountain of freshly spooned potato salad, and Bridget, who stood with her own plate (chicken) and a wistful smile. "What?" he asked both of them.

"You're completely under that child's spell, that's all," teased Rebecca. "Wrapped around her finger, you are."

"Nothing wrong with that," said Bridget. "I was spoilt to death by my dad and I turned out just fine." She reached and pecked a kiss on Scott's lips. "You're so good with them," she said. "All of them."

"Yeah," agreed Rebecca. "You are. And they are very good for you."

Once they'd all eaten, Mabel declared it time for presents, because that was the natural order of birthday parties to one who is six years of age. Bridget and Matt went in for them; per his wishes there weren't many, only from the children, but they were more than Mabel could have carried on her own.

While Bridget was in the house, Sarah arrived, fashionably late as always; he was glad to see she was sober, or at least not quite obviously pissed, and she looked happy if a bit confused at the number and variety of people in attendance. "Happy birthday, Scott," she said, greeting him with air-kisses over his cheeks. He hadn't seen her for about two months, hadn't been sure she would even attend, and realised that absence did indeed make the heart grow fonder.

"Thank you, Sarah," he said, then gestured towards the grill, towards where Daniel still attended cooking meat. "If you're hungry, there's still plenty of food."

"Oh, indeed," she said; Sarah and Daniel had met before, briefly, and had playfully bantered with one another. Bridget assured Scott that she had warned Sarah about Daniel (and vice versa), though Daniel had still come away from that encounter looking slightly terrified. In fact, he looked equally terrified now as she approached him and his domain.

Scott could only laugh a little; the two of them chatting together reminded him a bit of those mega-monster picture pair-ups: Dracula versus Frankenstein, Godzilla versus Mothra. He realised it was a bit mean, and never would have said it to Bridget, though. She was still so very fond of Daniel (he quite liked the man, himself, once he'd gotten over his jealousy), while Scott would at best tolerate Sarah for the sake of their children; they were never going to be best pals.

"Presenth!" cried Mabel; she was suddenly by his side again, grinning madly. Bridget and Matt followed, each with an armful.

"You can be my helper, okay, Princess?" he said to her.

"Okay, Dah."

Scott had never wanted Billy or Mabel to call him 'Daddy', because they had already had one of those, and he had no intention of unseating him. The question of what the children should call him at home, though, had been unresolved until recently, when Mabel had, out of the blue, begun to call him 'Dah'; close enough to 'Dad' without actually being 'Dad', which he found beautifully poetic. This had caught on with Billy, too, and now even his own boys had begun to use it. If anyone took notice of the appellation, no one mentioned a thing.

The presents were enough to make a man like himself, with his many years of military training, feel very emotional. From Matt he received a new custom case for his fancy mobile phone, which Matt had apparently designed himself through a website (or so Bridget tried to explain to him), bearing their family crest; from Fred, a hot water spa foot massager ("He insisted," Bridget explained, "because you're a sport teacher and you're on your feet a lot"; he loved it); from Billy, a deluxe disc featuring the great jazz masters of the twentieth century.

Last but not least was the present from Mabel, which she had obviously boxed and wrapped herself. He found, deep in the centre of a mountain of tissue paper, a coffee mug that she had painted herself: two taller (adult) figures and four children figures, one of the four clearly a girl. He had a feeling it was supposed to be six of them, but otherwise he was not sure, as they hardly looked human. "This is great," he said. "I love it, Mabel." He pointed to the small girl figure. "Is that supposed to be you?"

Mabel nodded, beamingly proud. "We're fuckoons," she said.

Scott shot a look to Bridget, who had her hand over her mouth; he thought she had begun crying but realised quickly that despite the tears in her eyes, she was suppressing a laugh. He looked to the mug again, looked to Mabel, and truly understood what her picture meant to her: they were Hellvanians; they were a family. No greater compliment could have been bestowed upon him by her.

"You're _what_?" asked Sarah, clearly perplexed.

"I'll explain later," he said.

Scott carefully set down the mug, then reached over to take her up into his arms, onto his lap, to give her a hug. She kissed him on the cheek—she smelled of cupcakes, even now—and he felt tears in his own eyes.

"Happy birthday, Dah," Mabel said sweetly, close to his ear, and his heart melted as it had the first time he'd seen her with her mother, the woman who had shown him life could be fun again.

…

Once all of the guests had gone, once the children were settled down in their respective bedrooms after cupcakes and soda all evening, Scott was alone with Bridget at last, in the back garden; in the fading light of day, they watched the swings sway in the breeze, the sounds of the city very far away, the cool summer breeze refreshing.

"Very good day," he murmured, holding her in his arms. Very good six months, if he were to tell the truth.

"And you didn't even _want_ a party," she said.

"Pleased to have been proven wrong."

After a moment in the quiet of the night time crickets and the light of the waning moon, amongst the remnants of the party (they'd already decided to finish the cleaning up the next afternoon), she spoke again. "I haven't given you your present yet."

"Oh, yes," he murmured, holding her even closer; "you have."

_The end._


End file.
